MARK, 

LEE 
LUTHER 


THE  WOMAN 
OF  IT 


BY 

MARK  LEE  LUTHER 

AUTHOR  OP 

"  THE  SOVEREIGN  POWER  " 
"THE  CRUCIBLE"  ETC. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

M  C  M  X  I  I 


COPYRIGHT.    1911.    1912.    BY   COLLIER    AND    NAST 
COPYRIGHT.    1912.    BY    HARPER    a    BROTHERS 

PUBLISHED   SEPTEMBER.    1912 


H-M 


TO 
NELLIE   LUTHER   FROST 


2228472 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 


CHAPTER  I 

A  WOMAN  you  ought  to  know  sat  watching 
the  mild  eddy  of  a  hotel  lobby  in  Washing- 
ton. It  was  one  of  the  smaller  hotels — overgrown 
boarding-houses  in  reality — which  cater  to  the 
more  domestic  members  of  the  House  of  Repre- 
sentatives. The  proprietor,  according  to  his 
lights,  had  even  made  certain  decorative  attempts 
in  keeping  with  the  official  character  of  his 
patrons.  The  Stars  and  Stripes  topped  the  rear 
alcove  where  the  clerks  had  their  desk;  steel 
engravings  of  George  Washington,  Abraham 
Lincoln,  and  the  President  in  office  hung  here 
and  there;  and  a  stuffed  eagle,  presumably  em- 
blematic, perched  jauntily  above  the  telephone- 
booth.  That  national  institution,  the  rocking- 
chair,  was  also  in  marked  favor.  There  was 
rather  too  much  red  in  the  walls  and  rugs,  and  a 
too  lavish  use  of  electricity;  but  the  effect  as  a 
whole  was  cheerful. 

"I  didn't  suppose  a  hotel  could  look  so  home- 
Ill 


THE   WOMAN   OF  IT 

like,  Fern,"  said  the  woman  to  the  girl  who 
shared  her  shy  corner. 

"I  wish  we  knew  somebody,"  replied  Fern. 

Both  glanced  wistfully  toward  the  center  of 
the  lobby,  where  the  thicket  of  rockers  swayed 
sociably  in  pairs,  trios,  and  quartettes.  Nearly 
every  chair  held  a  woman.  The  men  in  most 
part  lounged  about  the  cigar-stand  hard  by  the 
clerks'  desk,  smoking  or  plying  toothpicks.  None 
of  them  wore  evening  clothes,  but  a  white  waist- 
coat or  two  paid  modest  tribute  to  the  amenities. 
One  of  the  group  so  distinguished,  a  man  with 
nervous  hands,  was  telling  a  story.  As  he  ended, 
another  man,  who  had  been  restively  awaiting 
his  turn,  capped  the  anecdote.  This  rival  story- 
teller was  of  a  florid  type  of  good  looks,  drop- 
ping by  night  a  full  decade  of  his  forty-five 
years,  and  bore  the  hallmark  of  commercial  suc- 
cess. 

"Papa  seems  to  have  plenty  of  friends,"  said 
Fern,  watching  the  florid  man.  "I  wonder  what 
he's  saying  to  them." 

Olive  Braisted  smiled  indulgently  at  her  help- 
mate. 

"Steve's  telling  them  how  I  invented  the 
relish,  I  expect.  He  never  gets  tired  of  bragging 
that  I  was  the  one  who  set  things  going.  But  I 
always  say  what  I  done  was  nothing;  it  took 
his  brains  to  make  Imperial  Relish  a  household 
word  all  over  the  globe." 

"It  is  pretty  famous,  isn't  it?    Did  you  notice 

[2] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

they  had  it  printed  on  the  bill  of  fare  at  dinner 
to-night?" 

"Yes.  I've  got  in  the  way  of  looking  out  for 
it.  But,"  she  added,  shrewdly,  "maybe  they 
done  that  just  to  make  up  to  your  father.  Ever 
since  he  was  on  in  March  to  be  sworn  in  they've 
known  here  at  the  Walden  that  we  were  coming." 

"I  expect  father  met  a  lot  of  these  Congress- 
men then,"  speculated  Fern,  after  another  silence. 

"Yes,  he  did,  but  he  says  he  don't  know  their 
wives  yet  any  better  than  we  do." 

Whereupon  there  befell  a  little  incident  which 
seemed  to  qualify  this  statement  of  the  Hon. 
Stephen  Braisted.  From  the  elevator  trailed  a 
blond  lady  of  generous  though  shapely  outline, 
who,  adjusting  a  gold  lorgnon  to  her  exceedingly 
blue  eyes,  swept  the  lobby  and  straightway  re- 
jected the  society  of  the  rocking-chairs  for  the 
masculine  company  about  the  cigar-stand.  Olive 
Braisted,  like  every  one  keenly  aware  of  this 
brilliant  being's  transit,  thought  her  conduct 
bold,  but  was  distracted  from  pointing  a  moral 
to  Fern  by  the  spectacle  of  her  Stephen  being 
greeted  by  this  person  as  if  he  were  a  friend  of  long 
standing.  She  seemed  on  excellent  terms  with 
most  of  the  men,  in  fact,  and  such  as  she  did  not 
know  were  at  once  presented  by  the  story-telling 
gentleman  with  the  nervous  hands,  whom  Mrs. 
Braisted  divined  to  be  her  husband.  With  this 
feminine  invasion  the  group  visibly  prinked  and 
plumed  itself  for  higher  things;  cigars  were  held 

[3] 


THE   WOMAN   OF   IT 

at  more  conscious  angles;  the  talk  plainly  grew 
gallant. 

"Why  do  men  always  change  so  when  a  woman 
comes  along?"  Fern  asked. 

"I  shouldn't  say  *  always,""  answered  her 
mother,  sagely.  "  It  depends  a  lot  on  the  woman. 
A  plain  body  like  me  could  plump  in  over  there 
and  never  cause  a  ripple." 

For  perhaps  the  first  time  in  her  life  the  girl 
was  prompted  to  compare  her  mother  with  other 
women.  Then,  in  the  same  breath,  the  impulse 
struck  her  as  disloyal,  and  with  a  quick  move- 
ment she  caught  and  pressed  the  nearest  toil- 
worn  hand. 

"You're  not  really  plain,"  she  reassured,  "and 
you're  the  best  mother  in  the  world." 

Olive  Braisted  stirred  a  trifle  shamefacedly 
under  the  public  caress.  However  much  she 
hungered  for  her  daughter's  affection,  she  would 
not  have  her  effusive,  though  this  was  scarcely 
her  word  for  the  enormity.  Her  own  term — and 
she  fitted  it  instantly  to  the  showy  heroine  of 
the  cigar-stand  comedy — was  "gushing."  Then, 
following  some  remark  of  Braisted's,  she  saw 
the  lady  glance  graciously  toward  their  corner 
and  move  forward  in  his  company. 

"Why,  he's  bringing  her  over!"  whispered 
Fern,  excitedly. 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  demanded  her  mother, 
timidly  flustered  too,  and  vexed  with  herself 
because  of  it.  "  I'm  sure  we're  as  good  as  she  is." 

[4] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

Stephen  Braisted  beamed  over  the  intro- 
ductions. 

"Ollie,"  he  said,  "shake  hands  with  Mrs. 
Congressman  Estabrook  of  Brooklyn.  And  Mrs. 
Estabrook,  here's  my  little  girl,  Fern.  This  is 
the  kind  of  eighteen-year-olds  we  grow  in  the 
western  part  of  our  State." 

"I've  wanted  to  know  you,  dear  Mrs.  Braisted, 
ever  since  I  met  your  delightful  husband  last 
spring,"  murmured  the  lady,  and  then,  holding 
Fern  a  moment  at  arm's  length,  exclaimed:  "The 
living  image  of  my  poor  Marjorie.  I  must  kiss 
you  for  her  sake." 

The  pathos  which  she  imparted  to  this  speech 
deceived  Olive. 

"Did  you  lose  her  recently,  ma'am?"  she 
asked. 

"Lose  her?" 

"I  thought  you  meant  she  had  passed  away." 

"Oh,  dear  no."  She  sank  gracefully  into  a 
chair  and  arranged  her  soft  draperies  becom- 
ingly. "Marjorie  is  in  a  Boston  finishing-school. 
We  did  discuss  placing  her  somewhere  here,  but 
I  decided  that  for  real  finish  Washington  was 
quite  impossible." 

"Fern  is  going  to  enter  a  school  here  to- 
morrow," stated  Olive,  bluntly. 

"Really!"  Mrs.  Estabrook  was  unembar- 
rassed. "I've  no  doubt  that  for  a  country  girl 
it's  the  very  thing." 

Braisted,  hovering  vaguely  over  them  during 


THE   WOMAN    OF   IT 

these  exchanges,  now  said:  "I  don't  want  to  miss 
any  of  your  husband's  stories,  Mrs.  Estabrook," 
and,  despite  playful  reproaches,  deserted  to  the 
men. 

Mrs.  Estabrook  followed  his  retreat  with  her 
lorgnon. 

"I  do  admire  a  successful  man,"  she  avowed, 
turning.  "You  must  be  very  proud  of  him, 
Mrs.  Braisted." 

Olive  was  indeed  proud  of  him,  even  if  her 
sense  of  fitness  forbade  frank  confession;  and, 
whether  it  were  gush  or  not,  the  woman's  praise 
of  Steve  was  welcome. 

"He  deserves  success,"  she  said,  warmly. 
"He  worked  hard  for  it." 

"And  he  says  he  owes  it  all  to  you!  When  we 
met  in  March  he  told  me  that  the  idea  of  the 
famous  relish  was  yours,  and  he  mentioned  it 
again  to-night." 

Mother  and  daughter  exchanged  a  look  of  fond 
understanding,  and  Olive  made  her  usual  dis- 
claimer. 

"What  I  done  was  nothing,"  she  insisted. 
"It  needed  his  brains  to  build  up  the  business. 
I  never  could  have  made  the  relish  a  household 
word." 

"Do  tell  me  about  it,"  begged  her  auditor, 
amiably.  "It  must  be  a  real  romance." 

"It  is,"  agreed  Olive.  "Three  years  ago  this 
time  we  were  as  poor  as  Job's  turkey." 

"Only  three  years!"  said  Mrs.  Estabrook. 
[6] 


THE   WOMAN   OF   IT 

Yet,  while  her  lips  dropped  sympathy,  her  brain 
queried  how  the  possession  of  wealth  could  have 
wrought  so  little  change  in  Braisted's  wife.  Her 
dress  was  dowdy;  her  hair  was  strained  back 
with  painful  neatness;  her  hands  were  scarred 
and  roughened  by  drudgery;  her  whole  manner, 
like  her  speech,  seemed  to  her  critic  provincial 
to  an  extreme. 

"Steve  and  I  both  come  of  plain  country 
stock,"  said  Olive.  "His  grandparents,  like 
mine,  moved  from  New  England  to  Tuscarora 
County,  New  York,  when  all  that  part  of  the 
State  was  just  a  wilderness.  His  folks  settled 
near  New  Babylon — that's  the  county -seat — and 
mine  a  mile  or  so  west  of  Etruria  on  the  Ridge 
Road.  Both  of  us  went  to  the  academy  in  New 
Babylon,  and  that's  where  we  got  acquainted  and 
did  our  courting.  I  married  young — too  young, 
people  would  think  nowadays — and  started  in 
housekeeping  right  away.  Our  place  was  near 
the  lake,  and  as  nice  a  piece  of  property  as  you 
could  ask  for.  We  hadn't  money  enough  to  buy 
it  free  and  clear;  but  crops  had  been  splendid  for 
years,  and  we  figured  we  could  pay  off  the  mort- 
gage in  no  time.  But  we  never  did  pay  it  off, 
though  we  lived  there  almost  thirteen  years. 
All  our  children  were  born  on  the  farm,  the  two 
that's  living  and  the  three  we  buried.  I  always 
had  a  baby  in  my  arms  those  days,  but  I  didn't 
mind.  We  had  to  have  a  hired  girl  while  I  was 
on  my  back,  and  I  enjoyed  the  rest." 

[7] 


THE   WOMAN   OF   IT 

"Dear  me!"  shrugged  Mrs.  Estabrook. 

"Well,  as  I  said,"  Olive  went  on,  "we  could 
never  lift  the  mortgage,  and  it  got  so  finally  we 
couldn't  even  pay  the  interest.  It  was  nip  and 
tuck  to  keep  bread  in  the  children's  mouths. 
By  and  by  they  foreclosed,  and  we  moved  over 
to  a  smaller  farm,  just  outside  Tuscarora  Falls, 
where  Steve  planned  to  raise  garden-truck  for 
the  townfolks.  Things  went  better  for  a  while. 
The  children — that  is,  Fern  and  Steve  Junior, 
who's  in  Yale  College  now — could  attend  good 
schools  and  once  in  a  while  hear  a  lecture  or  a 
play  to  improve  their  minds.  Still,  there  was 
just  a  living  in  it,  and  Steve  got  restless  and  threw 
it  up  for  a  clerking  job  in  town.  It  was  a  hard- 
ware-store where  he  worked,  and  we  lived  in  a 
house  about  as  big  as  a  minute  in  a  little  back 
street  near  by.  It  wa'n't  much  of  a  house — or 
much  of  a  job,  for  that  matter — but  we  were 
happy.  We  all  enjoyed  being  in  town,  and  Steve 
had  the  promise  of  a  raise  when  hard  times  let  up. 
But  hard  times  didn't  let  up,  and  Steve  come 
down  with  typhoid  fever.  Oh,  that  was  awful!" 

"Sickness  is  always  distressing."  Mrs.  Esta- 
brook stifled  a  yawn  and  was  caught  at  it  by  the 
girl. 

Fern's  mother  saw  nothing  of  this,  however. 

"But  I  won't  go  into  that,"  she  said,  with  a 
catch  in  her  voice.  "  He  didn't  die,  of  course,  but 
begun  to  pick  up  wonderful  and  hanker  for  his 
meals  in  a  way  he  hadn't  for  a  long  time.  It  was 

[8] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

then,  just  to  tempt  Steve,  that  one  day  I  made 
up  a  batch  of  the  relish." 

"Ah!"  observed  her  listener,  brightening  in 
the  hope  of  a  speedy  climax.  "So  that  was  how 
you  invented  it." 

"No,"  replied  Olive,  with  rigid  accuracy;  "it 
wa'n't.  I  really  hit  on  the  recipe  when  we  run 
the  truck-farm  and  I  had  everything  in  the 
pickle  line  handy.  However,  I  made  some  of 
it  now  for  Steve,  and,  as  I  sat  watching  him 
enjoy  it,  all  of  a  sudden  it  popped  in  my  head 
to  take  a  sample  to  our  grocer.  I  said  nothing 
to  the  family;  but  that  afternoon,  when  the 
dishes  were  washed,  I  slipped  round  the  corner 
to  the  man  we  traded  with  most,  because  he 
trusted  us  most,  and  when  the  store  was  clear  of 
customers  I  handed  him  my  little  glass  jar. 
'I  want  you  to  try  that  with  your  supper  to- 
night, Mr.  Rawlins,'  I  says.  'To-morrow,  when 
I  stop  by,  tell  me  honestly  what  you  think  about 
it.'  Well,  to  cut  a  long  story  short,  he  liked  it 
so  much  he  was  willing  to  sell  it  over  his  counter 
and  allow  me  a  good  profit.  And  he  done  more. 
Although  we  owed  him  a  lot,  he  trusted  me  for 
the  stock  of  materials  and  for  jelly  tumblers  to 
put  the  relish  in.  Then  I  went  home  and  told 
Steve." 

"He  must  have  been  delighted." 

"Indeed  he  wa'n't.  He  didn't  take  to  the 
idea  at  all,  first  off.  It  hurt  his  pride,  I  guess. 
But  the  debts  were  piling  up,  and  he  wa'n't 

[9] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

strong  enough  for  store  work  yet,  so  he  had  to 
let  me  go  ahead.  I'll  never  forget  how  we  got 
that  first  lot  ready  to  sell.  The  whole  family 
took  a  hand.  Fern  and  I  prepared  the  in- 
gredients, Steve  helped  with  the  bottling,  and 
S.  J. — that's  what  we  call  Steve  Junior — who 
was  taking  drawing  lessons  in  school,  printed 
the  labels  by  hand.  I  was  for  calling  it  simply 
Braisted's  Relish;  but  Steve  said  it  was  too 
good  a  thing  for  a  meek  name  like  that,  and 
insisted  on  adding  'imperial,'  and  Braisted's 
Imperial  Relish  it  has  stayed.  The  end  of  the 
story  you've  probably  heard,  for  the  papers 
printed  some  of  the  facts  during  Steve's  cam- 
paign. When  it  begun  to  take^which  was  right 
off,  Steve  designed  a  special  jar,  hired  help  and 
factory-room,  and  reached  out  for  trade.  It 
was  then  we  chose  the  label  you  see  everywhere. 
I  made  Steve  get  photographed  special  for  it, 
and  it  turned  out  the  best  likeness  he'd  ever 
had.  Well,  as  I  started  to  say,  he  put  a  drummer 
on  the  road,  and  when  orders  begun  to  come  in 
from  a  hundred  and  two  hundred  miles  off  I  knew 
the  battle  was  won,  though  naturally  I  couldn't 
guess  how  big  a  success  it  would  grow  to  be. 
Still,  it's  only  fair  to  say  that  our  brand  was 
known  all  over  western  New  York  before  a  New 
York  capitalist  got  a  taste  of  it  in  a  Rochester 
restaurant  and  sent  for  Steve  and  offered  to 
back  the  business  on  a  big  scale.  Advertising 
done  the  rest.  The  plant  that  begun  with  Steve 

[10] 


THE   WOMAN    OF    IT 

and  S.  J.  and  Fern  and  me  now  employs  hun- 
dreds of  hands  and  even  ships  the  relish  to 
India." 

"How  interesting!"  Mrs.  Estabrook  roused 
briskly.  "It's  meant  a  tremendous  change  for 
you,  of  course." 

"Not  so  much  till  lately.  At  first  it  was 
enough  for  me  to  know  we  were  out  of  debt  and 
putting  something  by.  After  a  while  we  built 
a  house  in  Tuscarora  Falls  and  furnished  it  as 
we'd  always  talked  of  furnishing  a  home.  That 
was  a  treat."  t 

"It  must  have  been." 

"Yes,"  said  the  older  woman,  musingly,  "it 
was  the  kind  of  thing  I'd  reckoned  I  might 
sometime  see  in  Heaven,  where,  according  to 
Scripture,  there'll  be  many  mansions  to  pick 
from;  but  I  certainly  never  did  expect  such  a 
blessing  down  here.  In  fact,  if  it  isn't  a  sin  to 
say  so,  I  don't  see  how  we  could  possibly  get 
more  satisfaction  out  of  one  of  those  ready- 
made  houses  in  the  skies  than  Steve  and  I  got 
from  the  place  we  built  in  Tuscarora  to  suit  our- 
selves." 

"What  style  of  house  did  you  decide  upon?" 

"White  paint  and  green  blinds,"  said  Olive. 
"I  don't  think  anything  can  be  nicer  if  it's  kept 
fresh." 

"She  means  the  kind  of  architecture,  momma," 
interpreted  Fern,  blushing. 

Olive  laughed. 

[ii] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"It  started  out  to  be  colonial,"  she  explained, 
"but  Steve  and  I  thought  of  so  many  bow-win- 
dows and  porches  and  cupolas  we  wanted  that 
the  man  said  he'd  defy  anybody  to  tell  what 
style  it  ended.  He  seemed  put  out  about  it, 
somehow;  but  it  suited  us.  What  we  were  after 
was  solid  comfort,  and  we  certainly  got  it.  Hot 
and  cold  water  everywhere,  gas  and  electric 
light,  two  bath-rooms,  and  such  a  kitchen !  Why, 
the  kitchen  beats  most  parlors." 

Mrs.  Estabrook  shuddered  mentally  to  fancy 
what  the  furnishings  of  this  architectural  night- 
mare might  be,  and  changed  the  subject. 

"You  didn't  care  to  travel?"  she  asked. 

"I  didn't  myself.  It  was  happiness  enough 
for  me  to  realize  that  the  roof  over  our  heads 
wa'n't  mortgaged,  and  that  there  was  help  in 
the  kitchen  to  do  the  drudgery.  Steve  traveled, 
though.  The  business  took  him  all  over  the 
United  States,  and  he  saw  before  I  did  that  it 
wa'n't  right  for  us  to  stick  always  in  Tuscarora 
County.  It  wa'n't  fair  to  the  children.  By  and 
by  he  begun  to  mix  in  politics.  It  was  the  busi- 
ness again  that  led  him  into  it;  but  he  come  to 
like  having  a  hand  in  things,  and,  first  thing  I 
knew,  our  old  member  of  Congress  died  very 
sudden  and  Steve  was  running  for  office  at  the 
special  election.  Well,  they  can't  do  enough  for 
him  out  our  way — they  say  it  was  the  Braisted 
Relish  that  put  Tuscarora  Falls  on  the  map- 
so  here  we  are." 

[12] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

Mrs.  Estabrook  saw  her  chance  and  rose. 

"Out  in  the  world  at  last!"  she  exclaimed, 
dramatically.  "You'll  adore  Washington." 

"I  don't  feel  so  lost  here  as  I  did  in  New  York 
when  we  come  east.  It's  more  quiet  and  home- 
like. Then,  there  seems  to  be  considerable  many 
country  people  in  the  Walden." 

"Yes?"  The  restless  lorgnon  reviewed  the 
lobby  with  an  air  which  the  silent  Fern  thought 
signified  "Too  many."  But  Mrs.  Estabrook 
contented  herself  with  saying,  "More  than  I 
supposed,"  and  with  a  brief  good  night  floated 
across  the  rug-littered  mosaic  to  rejoin  her  hus- 
band, who  at  this  moment  was  entering  the 
elevator. 

This^was  not  the  final  impression,  however, 
which  she  made  that  night  upon  her  new  ac- 
quaintance. It  happened  that  Olive,  herself 
shortly  ascending,  discovered  on  reaching  her 
landing  that  she  had  left  her  key  below  stairs. 
She  had  sent  Fern  to  fetch  it,  and  stood  waiting 
beside  her  own  door  when  the  sound  of  a  wom- 
an's yawn  came  to  her  over  the  transom  of  the 
room  across  the  corridor. 

"So  that's  what  you  make  of  Stephen  Braisted's 
family?"  commented  a  man's  voice. 

The  woman  of  the  yawn  gave  a  cry  expressive 
of  utter  fatigue. 

"It  did  bore  me — frightfully,"  she  said.  "I 
told  you  it  would.  I  dare  say  there  are  pos- 
sibilities in  the  daughter  with  the  silly  name; 

[131 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

but  Ollie,  as  the  relish-maker  calls  her,  is  hope- 
less. Why  should  I  bother  my  head  about 
her?" 

"On  general  principles,  Ada." 

"Is  Braisted  so  important?" 

The  scratch  of  a  match  and  the  odor  of  a 
cigar  drifted  over  the  transom  before  Estabrook 
answered : 

"Any  man  with  Braisted's  pile  is  important." 

"I  suppose  you've  something  up  your  sleeve, 
Dan?" 

"No."  His  tone  was  listless.  "My  sleeve 
is  as  empty  as  my  pocket." 

There  was  a  little  pause.  Then,  with  another 
yawn,  the  woman  retorted: 

"Oh,  well — keep  the  scheme  to  yourself  if  you 
prefer.  I  only  hope  it  will  pay.  You'll  have 
to  make  something  pay  soon." 


CHAPTER  II 

LIVE  endured  a  quarter-hour  of  acute  regret 
that  she  had  bared  her  heart  to  such  callous 
eyes;  but,  perceiving  the  humor  of  her  discovery, 
her  chagrin  lost  itself  in  curiosity,  and  she  lingered 
over  her  bed-going  in  the  hope  that  Steve  would 
return  and  tell  her  more  about  the  Estabrooks; 
but  Braisted  tarried  late,  and  she  fell  asleep. 
In  the  small  hours  she  was  drowsily  aware  that 
her  husband  had  come  in  redolent  of  tobacco  and 
cloves;  but  she  dropped  off  again  without  ques- 
tioning him.  The  morning  had  its  own  absorb- 
ing interest:  Fern  was  to  leave  her. 

After  she  dressed  she  went  softly  into  her 
daughter's  room.  The  girl  still  slept,  and  for 
a  long  moment  the  mother  bent  over  her  with 
a  painful  tightening  of  the  throat.  Fern  looked 
wonderfully  fresh  and  winsome  as  she  lay  among 
her  pillows,  her  face,  smiling  and  delicately 
flushing  in  some  dream,  framed  in  the  chestnut 
splendor  of  her  hair.  She  was  nearer  nineteen 
than  the  age  her  father  had  specified;  but  Olive 
thought  of  her  as  a  baby  still,  and  now,  stooping  as 
she  was  wont  above  her  childish  crib,  she  kissed 
an  outflung  dimpled  arm  and  then  started  guilti- 
ly back  as  the  sleeper  stirred. 


THE   WOMAN    OF   IT 

"It's  high  time  you  got  up,"  she  said,  in  a 
matter-of-fact  tone.  "You  know  this  is  the 
great  day." 

Fern  burrowed  deeper  into  her  pillows. 

"Let  me  finish  it,"  she  begged. 

Her  mother  briskly  raised  a  window-shade 
and  flooded  the  room  with  morning  sun. 

"Finish  what?" 

The  girl  opened  her  eyes  lazily,  and,  meeting 
the  light,  quickly  shut  them  up  again  with  a  lit- 
tle pout,  half  smile,  which  had  ravished  Olive's 
heart  from  the  cradle.  She  secretly  thought 
Fern's  eyes  the  loveliest  things  on  earth.  They 
were  gray  like  Steve's,  but  had  a  softness  which 
his  lacked,  while  any  beauty  might  have  coveted 
her  lashes.  She  reconnoitered  a  moment  now 
from  behind  their  silken  barrier. 

"Did  you  speak,  momma?" 

"You  said  you  wanted  to  finish  something, 
and  I  asked  you  what?" 

Fern  began  to  laugh. 

"Then  I  was  talking  about  my  dream.  It  was 
such  a  silly  dream.  I  thought  I  was  at  the  White 
House,  and  when  I  came  to  the  President  he  had 
Ben  Halsey's  face.  I  was  so  surprised  I  cried 
out,  'Why,  I  thought  you  were  my  father's 
secretary?'  Then  he  bowed  very  low  and  kissed 
my  hand  and  asked  me  to  receive  with  him." 

"That  was  a  tomfool  performance,"  comment- 
ed Olive,  wondering  whether  anything  in  par- 
ticular had  set  Fern's  thoughts  running  on  young 

[16] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

Halsey.     "Now  be  spry.    It's  almost  time  for 
breakfast." 

"But  you  don't  have  to  march  in  the  minute 
the  head  waiter  opens  the  doors.  I  wish  I  could 
board  here  instead  of  at  the  school.  I'd  just 
make  you  lie  abed  sometimes." 

Olive  shook  her  head. 

"No,  you  wouldn't,"  she  declared.  "I  was 
brought  up  to  rise  early,  and  I  don't  mean  to 
lose  the  habit  while  I  enjoy  my  health.  I  do 
wish  you  could  board  here;  but  you  wouldn't 
get  as  much  out  of  your  school.  It  will  seem 
queer  not  to  have  you  by  me  nights  where  I  can 
run  in  and  see  that  you  keep  the  covers  around 
your  shoulders." 

The  lump  leaped  back  in  her  throat  as  she 
pictured  this  deprivation,  and  she  made  a  bustle 
of  packing  till  her  self-control  returned. 

As  the  family  went  down  to  breakfast  Braisted's 
eye  fell  on  a  notice  posted  in  the  elevator. 

"The  official  ladies  will  meet  in  the  red  par- 
lor at  two  o'clock,""  he  read  aloud.  "This 
means  you,  Ollie." 

His  wife  eyed  the  announcement  with  mis- 
giving. 

"Do  I  have  to  go?"  she  asked. 

"Sure,"  he  said,  jocosely.  "They'll  have  you 
up  for  contempt  of  court  if  you  don't." 

"I'd  go  if  I  were  in  your  place,"  advised  Fern, 
as  they  passed  into  the  dining-room  and  strained 
to  achieve  a  dignity  befitting  the  negro  head 

[17] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

waiter's  escort.  "You'll  probably  get  to  know 
them  all  right  away,  and,  besides,  it  will  be 
something  for  you  to  do  after  you  take  me  over 
to  the  school." 

"I  find  I  can't  go  with  you,  by  the  way,"  put 
in  her  father,  shuffling  his  morning  mail  with  the 
air  of  a  man  overwhelmed  with  vast  affairs. 
"Some  of  the  up-State  members  are  going  to 
get  together  this  forenoon,  and  I  promised  to  be 
on  hand.  Anyhow,  Ollie,"  he  argued,  defensive- 
ly, seeing  his  wife's  disappointment,  "it's  mainly 
a  woman's  business.  I  ordered  you  a  carriage  for 
half-past  ten." 

Breakfast  became  rather  a  dismal  affair  after 
that,  for  Olive  had  all  along  counted  on  his 
managing  head  to  see  the  matter  through.  She 
and  Fern  trifled  with  the  food  and  avoided  each 
other's  eyes;  but  Braisted,  as  was  his  wont, 
isolated  himself  behind  his  newspaper  and  stoked 
away  great  quantities  of  fruit,  cereal,  rolls, 
coffee,  chops,  and  griddle-cakes  against  the 
labors  of  the  day.  This  trencherman's  feat  had 
become  as  habitual  with  him  as  the  sluggish 
torpor  which  for  two  hours  would  deprive  him 
of  what  he  called  his  head  for  business.  Yet 
he  never  blamed  his  breakfast.  He  had  eaten 
valiantly  when  he  toiled  with  his  hands,  and 
saw  no  reason  why  he  should  stint  himself  now 
that  he  could  well  afford  a  full  plate. 

About  the  time  Braisted's  brain  began  to 
clear,  his  wife  and  daughter  set  out;  and  the  ride 

[18] 


THE   WOMAN    OF   IT 

in  the  morning  air,  autumnal  in  its  mildness, 
although  December  had  begun,  soon  put  them 
in  brighter  spirits  than  they  had  known  since 
waking.  Their  driver,  an  aged  negro,  beguiled 
the  way  with  disjointed  scraps  of  local  history 
and  gossip  of  the  great.  Fern's  gray  eyes  re- 
garded him  with  reverent  awe  when  he  imparted 
the  statement  that  he  was  born  a  slave  on  the 
Mount  Vernon  estate;  but  doubt  crept  in  as, 
stimulated  by  her  interest,  he  unfolded  the  tale 
of  his  intimacy  with  virtually  every  President 
from  Washington  down.  Pinned  to  dates,  he 
had  the  hardihood  to  declare  himself  a  hundred 
and  ten  years  old  if  he  was  a  day,  whereupon 
she  sadly  left  off  delving  into  the  past  and  held 
him  strictly  to  the  present  era.  It  was  all  one 
to  the  negro,  who  dilated  with  equal  unction 
upon  the  latter-day  aristocracy  of  wealth  which 
was  crowding  the  aristocracy  of  birth  to  the 
wall.  In  one  instance,  an  old  Washingtonian 
had  by  some  miracle  contrived  to  rear  a  fortune 
and  a  house  which  vied  bravely  with  the  palaces 
of  the  money-kings  who  had  begun  to  affect  the 
Capital  winters.  The  Braisteds  were  to  hear 
more  of  this  structure;  but  now  it  merely  labeled 
itself  as  the  Colburn  place,  and  took  rank  with 
the  other  costly  houses  which  by  the  driver's 
account  were  one  and  all  marvels  of  beauty 
and  luxury. 

After  a  diverting  half -hour  they  reached  the 
remodeled  mansion  of  gray  stone  which  housed 

[19] 


THE   WOMAN   OF    IT 

the  school.  It  was  an  impressive,  castellated 
edifice,  a  little  withdrawn  from  a  fashionable 
avenue,  among  fine  old  trees  and  well-ordered 
shrubbery  which  still  retained  their  yellow  and 
scarlet  livery. 

**I  didn't  dream  it  was  so  high  and  mighty," 
whispered  Fern,  as  they  drove  under  a  porte- 
cochere  resembling  a  feudal  drawbridge.  "The 
photographs  didn't  look  anything  like  this." 

"Maybe  we  hadn't  ought  to  have  arranged 
everything  by  mail,"  said  her  mother,  with 
misgiving.  "I  wish  Steve  hadn't  been  so  brash 
in  sending  on  the  check." 

"But  I  like  it,"  reassured  the  girl,  "and  I'm 
sure  it's  fine.  Everybody  has  heard  of  Beau- 
champ  Manor." 

They  were  conducted  to  a  large  hall  where 
Olive,  hunting  vainly  for  the  visiting-cards  she 
could  never  remember  to  carry,  was  vaguely 
aware  of  the  presence  of  many  strange  objects 
and  of  an  ecclesiastical  light  filtering  from  stained 
glass. 

"Just  say  it's  Mrs.  Braisted  and  her  daughter 
who's  coming  here  to  school,"  she  told  the  ser- 
vant, giving  up  the  search. 

"Miss  Abercrombie  will  think  we're  green," 
deprecated  Fern,  on  the  man's  noiseless  depart- 
ure. 

"Well,  we  are,"  retorted  Olive.  "But  wouldn't 
this  Miss  What's-her-name  feel  just  as  green  on 
a  farm  out  our  way?" 

[20] 


THE    WOMAN   OF    IT 

Only  a  daring  imagination  could  figure  the 
personage  who  now  entered  as  an  adjunct  of  a 
rural  landscape.  The  necessity  of  posing  as  a 
model  of  deportment  to  fourscore  young  ladies 
had  transformed  the  unfortunate  woman  into 
a  thing  of  clockwork  whose  every  smile,  word, 
or  gesture  was  mechanical.  She  held  herself  in 
the  manner  which  court  painters  would  have  us 
believe  characterized  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  her 
way  of  shaking  hands  had  all  the  rigidity  to  be 
expected  of  such  a  bearing.  Extending  her  own 
hand  at  the  normal  level,  Olive  was  amazed  to 
find  herself  grasping  nothing  at  all,  and  to  dis- 
cover in  the  same  instant  that  Miss  Aber- 
crombie's  fingers,  crooked  at  a  precise  angle  to 
her  wrist,  were  dangling  just  beneath  her  chin. 
She  succeeded  in  seizing  the  cold  member  at  the 
second  shot  and  gave  way  to  Fern,  who,  profiting 
by  her  mother's  misadventure,  effected  a  good 
imitation  of  the  lady's  own  performance. 

"The  pictures  in  the  catalogue  don't  favor 
Beauchamp  Manor,"  observed  Olive,  to  relieve 
the  awkwardness  of  this  encounter. 

Miss  Abercrombie's  already  well-arched  brows 
rose  higher,  her  set  smile  widened  by  a  fraction 
— no  vulgar  fraction — till,  abetted  by  the  brows, 
it  expressed  a  god  -  like  tolerance  of  human 
error. 

"Beecham,  please,"  she  requested,  sadly. 
"We  follow  the  English." 

Mrs.  Braisted  turned  a  puzzled  face  upon  her. 

[21] 


THE    WOMAN   OF    IT 

"How?"  she  asked,  wondering  if  her  hearing 
were  failing. 

"I  refer  to  the  pronunciation  of  Beauchamp 
Manor.  We  use  the  English  rendering — Bee- 
cham." 

Olive  felt  that  this  was  not  only  hifalutin,  but 
in  some  way  a  betrayal  of  the  principles  of  1776; 
but  she  deferred  meekly  to  authority  seated  in 
so  august  a  shape. 

"I  presume  I  can  remember  it  by  the  pills," 
she  said.  "I'm  real  sorry  that  my  husband, 
who  done  all  the  corresponding  about  Fern's 
entering  Bowsham — I  mean  Bee-champ  Manor, 
couldn't  come  with  us;  but  you  know,"  she  went 
on,  with  a  little  thrill  of  pride  in  Steve's  official 
status,  "a  Congressman  has  no  end  of  calls  on 
his  time." 

"So  I  understand,"  returned  Miss  Abercrom- 
bie,  as  if  Congressmen  were  a  species  of  fauna 
with  which  one  could  scarcely  expect  a  gentle- 
woman to  be  familiar.  "However,  Mr.  Brai- 
sted's  letters  were  explicit.  His  words — I  am 
sure  I  quote  him  exactly — his  words  were, 
*  Whatever  it  costs,  my  daughter  must  have  the 
best/  Am  I  right?" 

Steve's  wife  was  not  sure  that  he  had  splurged 
to  this  extent;  but  it  sounded  like  him,  and  she 
made  no  qualifications. 

"The  best,  of  course,"  she  agreed.  "I  only 
wish  Fern  could  have  entered  when  your  fall  term 
begun;  but  the  rest  of  us  wa'n't  ready  to  come  on." 

[22] 


THE   WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Our  curriculum  is  so  elastic  that  a  girl  may 
enter  any  time,"  assured  the  preceptress,  light- 
ly, but,  as  if  taking  prudent  thought,  at  once 
added:  "Though,  of  course,  the  great  expense 
entailed  by  such  an  establishment  as  this  com- 
pels us  to  refuse  any  reduction  from  the  full- 
term  price.  Whatever  her  preparation,  Miss 
Braisted  will  have  no  difficulty  in  fitting  im- 
mediately into  place.  As  I  say,  our  curriculum 
is  elastic." 

Olive  wondered  whether  "  immejiately "  were, 
like  Beecham,  a  British  importation;  and  she 
was  not  at  all  sure  what  an  elastic  curriculum 
might  be,  though  she  had  read  the  costly  cata- 
logue of  Beauchamp  Manor  with  care. 

"Well,  anyhow,"  she  ventured,  "I  do  hope 
you  see  that  the  girls  stand  straight  and  keep 
their  feet  dry." 

Miss  Abercrombie's  smile  invited  implicit  con- 
fidence. 

"Our  medical  director  is  most  vigilant,"  she 
answered.  "Then,  too,  we  offer  special  courses 
in  hygiene  which  are  simply  invaluable.  A 
Beauchamp  Manor  girl  may  be  singled  out  any- 
where by  her  fine  carriage.  But  let  me  show 
you  through.  This  apartment  where  we  stand  we 
call  the  Hall,  and  an  attempt  has  been  made  to 
attune  the  furnishings  to  its  Tudor  character. 
It  serves  the  double  purpose  of  a  living-room 
and,  when  occasion  demands,  of  a  more  formal 
background  for  the  practice  of  the  graceful 

[23] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

amenities.  We  aim  to  accustom  our  young 
ladies  in  their  daily  life  to  refined  and  beautiful 
surroundings,  and  to  the  usages  of  good  society.'* 

As  she  passed  the  room  in  hurried  review, 
Olive  found  her  early  impression  of  its  foreign- 
ness  intensified.  Much  of  the  furniture  reminded 
her  of  a  section  of  a  museum  in  New  York  she 
had  hastily  visited  and  seemed  almost  ecclesias- 
tical in  design,  while  the  same  religious — she  was 
hah*  inclined  to  say  popish — tendency  char- 
acterized many  of  the  paintings,  emaciated 
saints  and  madonnas  being  particularly  numer- 
ous. Such  pictures  and  sculpture  as  did  not 
fall  within  this  category  went  to  a  pagan  ex- 
treme which,  to  her  thinking,  was  little  short  of 
scandalous.  Perhaps  in  a  museum  they  might, 
like  the  furniture,  have  their  curious  place,  but 
in  a  girls'  school — 

Miss  Abercrombie,  following  her  fascinated 
gaze,  paused  an  instant  before  one  of  the  arch- 
offenders. 

"What  superb  modeling!"  she  said.  "What 
poetry!  What  feeling!  As  you  see,  Mrs.  Brai- 
sted,  the  fine  arts  are  meat  and  drink  to  us.  As 
with  the  Greeks,  they  permeate  and  color  our 
lives.  We  aim  to  present  our  pupils  on  every 
hand  with  reminders  of  the  sublime  and  the 
beautiful." 

The  rest  of  the  building  was  only  less  pre- 
tentious. The  corridors,  the  chapel,  the  studies, 
the  gymnasium,  the  assembly-room,  where  four- 

[24] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

score  smiling  girls  eyed  the  newcomer  with 
interest,  all  bore  evidence  of  lavish  expenditure, 
and,  true  to  prediction,  preached  the  sublime 
and  the  beautiful  at  every  turn.  But  Fern's 
own  room,  her  mother  was  relieved  to  perceive, 
was  quite  free  of  these  plump  sinners  and  ill-fed 
saints. 

The  principal  misread  her  glance  at  the  bare 
walls. 

"We  leave  the  decoration  of  the  bedrooms  to 
individual  taste,"  she  explained.  "For  example," 
she  threw  open  the  door  of  a  neighboring  room, 
"here  is  what  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  wealth- 
iest men  in  America  prefers." 

They  glanced  in  at  a  cell  of  such  monastic 
simplicity  as  made  Fern's  room  seem  luxurious. 
An  iron  bed,  two  common  chairs,  a  pine  table, 
and  a  shelf  of  books  were  its  sole  furnishings. 

"And  the  daughter  of  ex-Senator  Blount," 
said  Miss  Abercrombie,  impressively. 

"What!"  cried  Fern,  who  read  the  ten-cent 
magazines, "Marshall  Blount — the  asphalt-king?" 

"I  believe  the  sensational  press  does  give  him 
some  such  extravagant  title.  His  daughter,  as 
you  may  imagine,  has  a  mind  of  her  own.  She 
requested  this  simplicity.  Her  home  has  wearied 
her  of  display." 

Olive's  sympathy  went  out  to  the  child  of 
millions. 

"I'm  glad  you'll  be  so  near  her,  Fern,"  she 
said.  "She  must  have  a  strong  character." 

3  [25] 


THE    WOMAN   OP   IT 

As  they  turned  away  Philippa  Blount  herself 
came  upon  them.  Dark,  slender,  proud  of  car- 
riage, she  bent  a  level  look  upon  the  principal, 
which  told  plainly  that  she  was  aware  that  her 
room  had  been  exhibited  as  a  curiosity.  With 
a  flush  tinting  her  high  cheek-bones  Miss  Aber- 
crombie  presented  the  Braisteds.  The  girl  greet- 
ed them  with  a  simple  directness  that  had  its 
charm,  and,  on  learning  that  Fern  was  to  room 
across  the  corridor,  gave  the  new-comer  a  non- 
committal smile  and  bade  her  be  neighborly. 
She  was  entering  her  own  room  when  the  name 
Braisted  again  passed  Miss  Abercrombie's  lips. 

"Is  this  Mrs.  Stephen  Braisted?"  she  asked, 
turning  with  a  marked  change  of  manner.  "Mrs. 
Stephen  Braisted  of  Tuscarora  Falls?" 

Olive  had  a  sudden  heady  sense  of  the  meaning 
of  fame. 

"I  guess  you've  heard  of  the  relish,"  she 
smiled. 

For  an  instant  the  girl  looked  baffled. 

"Oh  yes,"  she  returned,  smiling  too.  "Every- 
body has  heard  of  it,  of  course.  But  what  I 
started  to  say  was  that  we  have  a  friend  in 
common.  I  mean  Mr.  Halsey." 

"Ben!"  cried  Fern.     "Our  Ben  Halsey?" 

"Yes.  I  knew  he  was  coming  back  to  Wash- 
ington with  Mr.  Braisted,  and  I  am  very  glad  to 
meet  his  friends." 

Olive  was  dumfounded  to  find  Steve's  secre- 
tary on  such  terms  with  this  regal  daughter  of 

[26] 


THE   WOMAN   OF    IT 

Marshall  Blount.  Indeed,  Miss  Abercrombie 
herself  burned  with  a  vulgar  curiosity,  which, 
as  a  model  of  deportment,  she  could  scarcely 
gratify.  Then  the  strange  girl  vanished  into 
her  strange  room,  leaving  the  mystery  un- 
solved. 

Miss  Abercrombie  considerately  left  them  at 
Fern's  door;  and  Olive  faced  the  actual  parting, 
which,  trying  enough  hi  itself  since  it  was  their 
first,  now  took  on  added  poignancy  from  her 
doubt  whether  they  had  chosen  wisely.  She 
put  off  the  inevitable  as  long  as  she  could,  an- 
swering Fern's  excited  chatter  after  its  kind  and 
making  a  show  of  helping  her  unpack.  Sudden- 
ly, however,  she  flung  pretense  aside,  and,  shak- 
ing with  sobs,  gathered  the  rather  mystified  girl 
into  her  arms. 

"I  suppose  I'm  an  old  fool,"  she  said,  presently 
smiling  through  her  tears.  "Any  other  woman 
would  be  delighted  to  leave  her  daughter  in 
such  a  place.  You'll  learn  everything  a  lady 
had  ought  to  know." 

Fern  brushed  away  one  or  two  sympathetic 
tear-drops  from  her  own  soft  cheek  and  hailed 
the  cheerier  outlook. 

"I  think  it's  grand,"  she  declared. 

"Don't  let  the  grandness  make  you  home- 
sick." 

"Of  course  I  won't.  How  can  I  possibly  be 
homesick  when  I  know  you  and  father  are  just 
(lown  at  the  Walden?" 

[27] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

"Besides,  it's  only  a  few  weeks  to  Christmas," 
Olive  reminded,  more  for  her  own  comfort  than 
to  hearten  Fern.  "We'll  be  together,  S.  J.  and 
all." 

She  steeled  herself  to  a  calm  good-by;  but  she 
passed  out  under  Miss  Abercrombie's  feudal 
drawbridge  with  a  feeling  of  irrevocable  loss. 


CHAPTER  HI 

AT  luncheon  Steve  poohpoohed  her  doubts. 
"Of  course  it's  the  right  place  for  her," 
he  said,  easily.  "I  was  kept  so  on  the  jump 
when  I  was  here  in  the  spring  that  I  couldn't 
properly  look  it  over  for  myself;  but  I  did  ask 
questions,  and  everybody  told  me  there  wasn't 
a  school  in  the  city  that  could  touch  it  for  equip- 
ment. And  it  costs  more  than  any  other!  I 
guess  that  shows  pretty  well  where  it  stands." 

"I  wish  it  wa'n't  quite  so  showy,"  returned 
his  wife.  "It  seems  almost  like  a  castle." 

"No  castle's  too  good  for  Fern.  Drop  the 
penny-saving,  Ollie.  We're  quit  of  scrimping, 
thank  God!  Cut  loose  and  enjoy  life.  That's 
going  to  be  my  motto  from  now  on.  If  I  hadn't 
promised  to  meet  a  fellow  at  the  New  Willard, 
I'd  carry  you  off  to  a  matinee.  What  say  you 
go  by  yourself?" 

"I've  some  mending  to  do." 

"There  you  go  again,"  he  jeered.  "As  if  the 
hotel  wa'n't  full  of  colored  girls  you  could  hire." 

"It  wouldn't  be  done  right."  j 

"Oh,  well,"  he  laughed,  "suit  yourself.  I've 
got  to  run  now." 

129] 


THE   WOMAN    OF    IT 

She  lingered  at  table,  dreading  to  face  the 
loneliness  of  her  rooms.  The  grotesque  ways  of 
the  negro  waiters  diverted  her,  for  they  were 
unlike  such  colored  folk  as  she  had  known. 
The  negro  of  her  acquaintance  was  a  sober  being 
of  varying  industry,  little  different  save  in  skin 
from  the  predominant  white.  These,  on  the 
contrary,  seemed  like  great  black  children  con- 
fronting life  with  an  eternal  smile.  She  was  sure 
that  the  gigantic  head  waiter,  who  ruled  his  lit- 
tle kingdom  with  autocratic  hand,  must  descend 
from  some  kidnapped  jungle  king.  Few  people 
were  lunching  at  this  hour,  however,  and  it  came 
to  her  abruptly  that  the  eyes  of  the  idle  regi- 
ment were  mainly  fixed  upon  herself.  As  she 
went  out  she  perceived  Mrs.  Estabrook  and  her 
husband  in  a  far  corner  and  remembered  that 
she  had  meant  to  ask  Steve  precisely  who  they 
were. 

On  entering  the  elevator  her  eye  once  more 
met  the  notice  summoning  the  "official"  ladies 
to  the  red  parlor  at  two  o'clock,  and  instead  of 
ascending  she  turned  and  sought  the  place  of 
meeting.  What  had  earlier  seemed  a  disagree- 
able duty,  now  presented  itself  as  a  welcome 
refuge  from  her  thoughts.  The  sliding  doors  of 
the  red  parlor,  so  called  to  distinguish  it  from 
varieties  in  blue,  yellow,  and  green,  were  closed 
save  for  a  narrow  aperture  into  which  one  or 
two  ladies  ahead  of  her  now  edged  with  a  bearing 
patently  worn  to  impress  the  unofficial  by- 

[30] 


THE   WOMAN    OF    IT 

slanders.  Squeezing  in  turn  through  this  open- 
ing, Olive  found  herself  in  an  atmosphere  of 
great  solemnity,  such  conversation  as  there  was 
being  conducted  in  whispers.  After  a  moment's 
hesitation  she  sought  a  sofa  in  a  retired  corner, 
where  sat  a  gray-haired  old  lady  whose  face  she 
had  already  remarked  and  liked.  She  greeted 
Olive  with  a  friendly  nod  as  she  sat  down,  and 
bent  toward  her  with  an  air  of  humorous  con- 
fidence. 

"Which  were  you  looking  for  as  you  came  in," 
she  asked,  "the  casket  or  the  goat?" 

Olive  smiled  back  comprehendingly. 

"It  does  look  pretty  glum,"  she  agreed. 

"I  should  say  it  does.  They  act  as  if  it  were 
a  lodge  initiation  or  a  funeral.  You're  Mrs. 
Braisted,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes;   from  New  York  State." 

"I'm  Mrs.  Tully,  from  Maine,"  announced 
the  old  lady.  "Our  State  has  been  in  the  habit 
of  sending  my  husband  back  term  after  term, 
so  Washington  is  an  old  story  to  me.  I  can  see 
you  don't  like  it  much  yet;  but  you  will.  It's 
the  funniest  place  on  earth." 

The  guarded  opening  continued  to  admit  self- 
conscious  women  till  the  company  numbered 
over  a  score.  As  each  entered,  Olive's  sprightly 
seat-mate  would  murmur  "Kansas,"  "Texas," 
"California,"  "Kentucky,"  "Ohio,"  or  some 
other  commonwealth. 

"Do  you  know  everybody?"  Olive  exclaimed. 

[31] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

Mrs.  Tully's  eyes  twinkled  with  amusement. 

"Indeed  I  don't,"  she  chuckled.  "Two- 
thirds  of  them  never  lived  at  the  Walden  before. 
Nine  times  out  of  ten,  though,  I  can  guess  their 
State.  I  was  sure  you  were  from  western  New 
York  before  I  was  told  who  you  were.  Now 
take  that  bean-pole  of  a  woman  just  coming  in ! 
Hot  bread  and  fried  chicken  have  written  'Mis- 
sissippi* all  over  her  sallow  face  just  as  plainly 
as  mine  spells  salt  codfish,  mince-pie,  and 
Maine." 

Olive  hardly  knew  whether  to  take  her  in 
jest  or  in  earnest;  but  she  entered  into  the  game 
with  zest. 

"How  about  those?"  she  asked,  as  two  matrons 
of  ampler  lines  with  difficulty  negotiated  the 
passage. 

"Pennsylvania,"  classified  Mrs.  Tully.  "The 
tall  one  hails  from  near  Philadelphia,  and  the 
other  from  near  Pittsburgh.  I  know  by  their 
accent,  for  I  overheard  them  talking  millinery 
in  the  hall  outside  the  door.  But  try  it  for  your- 
self. Where  do  you  place  the  blond  person  with 
the  quizzing-glass,  who  has  just  posed  herself  so 
successfully  on  the  piano-stool?" 

"But  I  know  Mrs.  Estabrook,"  Olive  an- 
swered. "I'll  have  to  try  another." 

"Oh,"  said  her  companion,  as  if  reining  up 
shortly  from  pungent  comment.  "I  thought  I'd 
start  you  off  with  something  easy.  Of  course, 
her  clothes  could  only  come  from  Fifth  Avenue." 

[32] 


THE    WOMAN   OF    IT 

Mrs.  Estabrook's  choice  of  the  piano-stool  was, 
beyond  doubt,  deliberate.  In  fact,  a  chair  was 
offered  her;  but  she  waved  it  aside  for  the  un- 
certain perch  before  the  instrument  whose 
mahogany  made  so  effective  a  background  for 
her  elaborately  tailored  costume.  She  wore  a 
hat,  and,  the  balmy  weather  notwithstanding, 
furs,  and  her  air  was  that  of  one  who  tarried 
for  a  moment  only  on  her  way  to  more  important 
affairs. 

"That  brown  broadcloth  fits  her  like  a  sheath,'* 
observed  Mrs.  Tully.  "I  wonder  who  makes 
her  clothes." 

Judging  by  eyes,  the  whole  assemblage  was 
busy  with  this  query.  Then  a  sharp-featured 
woman  in  the  bow-window  seemed  with  a  start 
to  recall  that  the  real  purpose  of  the  gathering 
was  not  to  inventory  Mrs.  Estabrook's  wardrobe; 
and,  tapping  a  convenient  jardiniere  with  her 
pencil  to  draw  the  hypnotized  public  attention 
to  herself,  she  began  to  explain  for  those  new  to 
Washington  that  in  most  hotels  where  a  number 
of  Representatives  resided  the  official  ladies 
found  some  measure  of  cooperation  a  social 
necessity.  As  wives  or  daughters  of  men  in 
public  life,  certain  things  were  expected  of  them 
which  ladies  not  exposed  to  the  limelight  could 
and  often  did  neglect.  The  etiquette  of  Wash- 
ington was  unique. 

"In  the  United  States,"  suggested  Mrs.  Esta- 
brook,  sweetly. 

[33] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

The  chairwoman  greeted  this  amendment  with 
a  chilling  stare. 

"In  the  United  States,  of  course,"  she  assented, 
primly.  "I  have  no  personal  knowledge  of  for- 
eign courts."  For  the  moment  she  lost  the 
thread  of  her  theme.  "Where  was  I?"  she  broke 
off,  reddening. 

Olive's  sofa  quivered  from  a  heroic  effort  for 
self-control  on  the  part  of  the  mirthful  Mrs. 
Tully. 

"Mrs.  Pratt  there,"  she  explained,  under  cover 
of  the  volley  of  promptings  which  met  the 
flustered  leader's  appeal — "Mrs.  Pratt  thinks 
that  nobody  knows  the  ropes  like  herself.  Her 
husband  is  just  beginning  his  tenth  term." 

Questioned  by  an  eager  little  woman  who  con- 
fessed that  she  had  never  been  east  of  the 
Rockies  before,  the  social  arbiter  now  launched 
into  a  dissertation  on  the  proper  conduct  of  life 
at  the  Capital,  which,  so  expounded,  seemed  to 
Olive  to  consist  mainly  of  an  insane  waste  of 
calling-cards.  Eighteen  winters  in  Washington 
had  developed  mighty  powers  of  endurance  in 
Mrs.  Pratt,  for  she  mentioned  with  pride  that 
she  had  more  than  once  accomplished  forty  calls 
in  an  afternoon.  Every  day  in  the  week,  it 
appeared,  had  its  peculiar  place  in  this  exacting 
rite.  Monday  was  sacred  to  the  Supreme 
Court;  on  Tuesday  the  Representatives  re- 
ceived; Wednesday  was  set  apart  to  the  Vice- 
President  and  the  Cabinet;  Thursday  was 

[34] 


THE  WOMAN   OF  IT 

given  over  to  the  Senators;  while  the  remainder 
of  the  week,  not  excepting  the  nominal  day  of 
rest,  was  monopolized  by  the  permanent  Wash- 
ingtonians.  A  lady  in  the  Cabinet  group,  so  the 
speaker  asserted,  would  in  a  single  afternoon 
number  her  callers  by  hundreds.  Yet,  after  all 
this  extravagant  outlay  of  energy  and  paste- 
board, these  laborers  in  a  sterile  vineyard  ap- 
parently gained  little  save  pasteboard  in  return. 

As  she  listened  Olive  asked  herself  whether 
this  was  the  way  she  would  choose  to  spend  her 
hard-won  leisure,  and  promptly  decided  that  it 
was  not.  Let  these  devotees  of  Red  Tape  do 
as  they  would;  she  would  have  none  of  it.  But 
it  forthwith  developed  that  she  could  not  wholly 
divorce  herself  from  the  scheme  of  things.  It 
was  stated  as  axiomatic,  and  received  like  an 
utterance  thundered  from  Sinai,  that  a  call 
upon  the  First  Lady  of  the  Land  was  incumbent 
upon  every  one  of  them,  while  it  was  with  equal 
emphasis  made  clear  that  to  do  themselves 
credit  the  official  ladies  of  the  Walden  must  pull 
together. 

"Let  us  strive  to  maintain  the  traditions  of 
the  House,"  exhorted  Mrs.  Pratt.  "Let  us  re- 
spect the  customs  of  this  especial  roof.  It  has 
always  been  our  habit  to  receive  on  the  second 
Tuesday  of  the  month,  and  I  think  I  may  say 
without  fear  of  contradiction  that  no  Repre- 
sentative receptions  are  more  popular.  The 
Walden  management  always  gives  us  the  ex- 

[35] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

elusive  use  of  the  drawing-rooms,  which,  as  you 
will  have  noticed,  can  be  thrown  together,  and 
allows  Garfield,  the  head-waiter,  to  announce 
our  guests.  One  of  the  hall-boys  is  assigned  to 
look  after  the  baskets." 

"Some  of  the  ladies  may  not  understand  the 
latter  allusion,"  contributed  Mrs.  Estabrook,  at 
this  point. 

The  social  arbiter  made  no  concealment  of 
her  impatience  at  a  second  interruption  from 
this  source. 

"What  won't  they  understand?"  she  demand- 
ed, tartly. 

"The  precise  function  of  the — baskets." 

Mrs.  Pratt  smiled  pityingly. 

"The  baskets,"  she  vouchsafed,  as  if  the  ex- 
planation of  such  an  elementary  matter  were  an 
imposition — "the  baskets  hold  the  cards.  They 
are  arranged  on  a  table  which  we  place  at  the 
entrance  of  the  lobby.  As  the  callers  pass  they 
drop  their  cards  into  such  of  these  receptacles 
as  they  wish.  Each,  naturally,  bears  its  owner's 
name.  The  baskets  may  be  of  any  tasteful 
pattern — some  tie  them  prettily  with  ribbon — 
and,  as  we  are  always  a  numerous  family  here 
at  the  Walden,  the  display  is  usually  a  varied 
one.  I  trust  I  have  made  it  quite  clear  to  you, 
Mrs. — er — Estabrook  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  quite,"  rejoined  that  lady.  "I  have  seen 
the  exhibition  myself,  and  was  only  anxious  that 
the  others  should  receive  a  graphic  conception. 

[36] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

I  am  sure  they  will  have  no  difficulty  in  seeing 
how  much  the  silly  tableful  resembles  a  bargain- 
counter." 

The  bomb  dropped  into  the  conference  so 
swiftly  that  it  was  not  at  once  evident  that  it 
was  a  bomb;  but  the  curdled  smile  which  the 
chairwoman  turned  on  the  presumptuous  critic 
of  the  piano-stool  soon  cleared  any  doubt.  Here 
was  temerity  indeed! 

"Perhaps  you  can  suggest  a  substitute?"  she 
snapped.  "Washington  will  be  heavily  in  your 
debt." 

"I've  no  doubt  I  could,"  replied  Mrs.  Esta- 
brook,  tranquilly.  "But  with  that  I  have  no 
concern.  I  use  the  baskets  simply  as  an  illus- 
tration of  the  absurdity  of  the  existing  plan 
whereby  all  the  ladies  receive  together." 

The  indignant  Mrs.  Pratt  opened  her  lips  for 
a  crushing  rebuke,  but,  finding  her  powers  of 
expression  inadequate,  shut  them  up  again  in 
a  grim,  straight  line. 

Mrs.  Estabrook  beheld  her  frown  unmoved. 

"Obviously,"  she  continued,  "we  can't  ex- 
pect to  do  things  in  a  hotel  as  we  would  in  our 
respective  salons,  if  I  may  use  a  word  which 
somehow  suggests  the  individuality  of  the  host- 
ess. But,  on  the  other  hand,  need  we  rush  to 
the  other  extreme?  Think  of  it  for  a  moment! 
Five-and-twenty  hostesses  in  a  single  drawing- 
room!  What  would  Mme.  Recamier  or  Mme.  de 
Sevigne  say  to  that?  What  chance  would  even 

[37] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

they  have  had  amid  such  a  regiment?  Now  I 
suggest  that,  instead  of  receiving  once  a  month 
en  masse,  we  divide  ourselves  into  four  groups 
and  receive  weekly." 

A  long  silence  followed  till  Mrs.  Pratt,  recol- 
lecting herself,  asked  if  Mrs.  Estabrook  meant 
to  offer  this  as  a  formal  motion. 

"Certainly,  if  it  is  necessary  to  be  formal." 

"The  chair  does  deem  it  necessary,"  ruled  the 
social  arbiter,  heedless  of  the  fact  that  nobody 
had  asked  her  to  become  a  chair  or  any  other 
article  of  furniture.  "Do  I  hear  a  second?" 

Another  silence  fell,  during  which  Mrs.  Esta- 
brook's  color  rose.  Finally  Olive's  seat-mate 
volunteered. 

"I  second  the  motion  as  a  matter  of  courtesy," 
she  said.  "I  don't  bind  myself  to  vote  for  it." 

Mrs.  Pratt  assumed  a  front  of  spartan  im- 
partiality. 

"It  has  been  moved  and  seconded,"  she  an- 
nounced, in  parliamentary  tones,  "that,  instead 
of  following  the  time-honored  tradition  of  the 
Walden  as  to  receptions,  we  divide  ourselves 
into  four  groups,  one  of  which  shall  receive  every 
week.  By  this  innovation,  let  me  add,  the  ex- 
pense incurred  will,  of  course,  fall  on  six  ladies 
instead  of  twenty-five.  All  in  favor  of  the  change 
raise  the  right  hand." 

Mrs.  Estabrook's  neat  glove  fluttered  in  air, 
a  lonely  minority  of  one. 

"Opposed?"  called  the  autocrat,  crisply,  and 

[38] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

then,  with  unchairman-like  triumph  at  the 
thicketj)f  hands:  "The  noes  have  it  by  a  prac- 
tically unanimous  vote." 

The  issue  came  so  quickly  to  the  test  that 
Olive  voted  with  neither  side;  but,  in  spite  of 
last  night's  duplicity,  she  felt  rather  sorry  for 
the  woman  on  the  piano-stool.  So  far  as  she 
could  make  out,  Mrs.  Estabrook  was  as  safe  a 
guide  for  these  mysterious  waters  as  the  un- 
engaging  Mrs.  Pratt. 

"I  suppose  Mrs.  Estabrook  has  lived  here  a 
long  time,  too?"  she  remarked  to  her  new  friend 
as  the  meeting  broke  up. 

Mrs.  Tully  gave  a  little  cluck  of  surprise. 

"But  you  said  you  knew  her!" 

"I  meant  I'd  met  her.  It  was  only  last 
night." 

"Then  you've  missed  half  the  joke.  The 
Estabrooks  have  come  to  the  Walden  to  save 
money.  He's  a  lame  duck — defeated  for  re- 
election, you  know.  They've  always  lived  at 
one  of  the  fashionable  hotels  before.  Now  you 
see  what  sticks  in  Harriet  Pratt's  throat." 

Olive  left  the  red  parlor  depressed. 

"I  don't  take  much  to  all  this  calling,"  she 
owned,  uneasily. 

"Oh,  you'll  soon  see  the  funny  side  of 
that,  too,"  reassured  Mrs.  Tully,  buoyantly. 
"I'd  advise  you  to  start  in  right  away.  Every- 
body works  hard  at  it  in  December.  Only  the 
White  House  is  exempt." 

[39] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

Reminded  again  of  the  most  formidable  call 
of  all,  Olive  wanted  to  ask  just  how  one  should 
go  about  it  to  pay  one's  respects  to  the  wife  of 
the  President  of  the  United  States;  but  her 
companion's  ever -dancing  eye  deterred  her. 
She  was  shy  of  exposing  her  ignorance  to  one 
so  prone  to  see  everything  in  a  spirit  of  jest. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ALL  the  next  day,  which  was  Sunday,  Olive 
was  tormented  by  the  thought  of  this  im- 
perative social  duty.  She  took  it  for  granted 
that  Steve  would  know  nothing  of  these  matters; 
besides,  he  could  think  or  talk  of  nothing  except 
the  opening  of  Congress  on  the  morrow.  The 
fear  lest  she  appear  ridiculous,  which  had  kept 
her  from  advising  with  Mrs.  Tully,  also  dis- 
suaded her  from  an  appeal  to  the  vinegar-faced 
autocrat  of  the  red  parlor;  she  would  set  Stephen 
Braisted's  wife  down  for  a  ninny.  It  did  occur 
to  her  that  Ben  Halsey  might  be  of  use,  for  he 
had  spent  a  winter  in  Washington  as  secretary 
to  Braisted's  predecessor.  She  did  not  mind 
asking  Ben.  This  manly,  wholesome  young 
chap,  from  a  neighboring  town  in  Tuscarora 
County,  had  enlisted  her  sympathies  in  more 
ways  than  one;  but  her  heart  warmed  to  him 
specially,  because  she  divined  that  he  was  in 
love  with  Fern. 

But  Ben's  ideas  of  Washington  social  usages 
were  vague. 

"You  see  the  old  member  from  Tuscarora 
was  a  bachelor,"  he  told  her.  "He  never  went 

4  [41] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

in  for  society.  He  used  to  say  he'd  noticed  that 
it  was  the  men  who  passed  the  balls  that  passed 
the  bills." 

"But  didn't  you  take  any  interest  in  such 
things?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  he  laughed.  "I  hadn't  the  time. 
You  know  I  attended  law-school  in  my  spare 
hours.  Whenever  I  got  a  breathing-spell  I  went 
to  the  theater  or  did  something  really  worth 
while.  But  I  guess  a  call  is  a  call,  whether  it's 
in  Washington  or  back  home.  Do  as  the  people 
do  in  Tuscarora,  and  you  can't  go  wrong." 

This  sounded  reasonable,  but  somehow  fell 
short  of  her  needs.  Viewed  merely  as  an  affair 
between  two  women,  the  ordeal  need  not  terrify. 
If  she  understood  Mrs.  Pratt,  however,  the  cere- 
mony was  nothing  so  human.  It  was  more  like 
a  high  conference  between  powers.  One  was 
mistress  of  the  White  House,  the  wife  of  the 
President  of  the  United  States  of  America. 
The  other,  she  reflected — the  dogmas  of  the  red 
parlor  ever  present — had  for  husband  one  who, 
in  his  sphere,  also  represented  the  sovereign  peo- 
ple. This  was  what  it  meant  to  be  an  "official 
lady."  She  must  not  only  do  Stephen  Braisted 
credit;  she  had  to  uphold  the  dignity  of  the 
Empire  State. 

Night  found  her  still  wretchedly  perplexed. 
Coming  by  herself  into  the  lobby  after  dinner 
and  meeting  no  acquaintance  however  slight, 
such  a  deluge  of  homesickness  gushed  over  her 

[42] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

that  she  faced  round  with  no  thought  but  to 
gain  her  own  room  and  sob  the  black  fit  away. 
As  her  eyes  were  suffused  she  avoided  the  ele- 
vator and  had  blindly  mounted  the  first  flight 
of  the  dim-lit  stairs  when  organ  music,  muted 
by  distance  or  intervening  walls,  arrested  her. 
Then,  as  she  listened,  women's  voices  joined  the 
instrument  in  a  familiar  hymn.  It  was  a  Scotch 
hymn,  and  had  somber  associations,  yet  by  some 
emotional  paradox  it  soothed  and  comforted. 
When  the  music  ceased  she  heard  a  stir  close  at 
hand  and  made  out  one  of  the  colored  maids 
giving  way  to  her  on  the  landing. 

"I  jes'  loye  hymns,"  explained  the  girl, 
apologetically. 

"Is  it  a  prayer-meeting?"  she  asked. 

"No'm.  Jes'  hymns.  Some  of  the  ladies 
mos'  gen'rally  sings  in  the  back  drawing-room 
Sunday  nights,  an'  when  I  cayn't  go  to  church 
I  come  heah  an'  listen." 

The  organ  began  again,  and  Olive  seated  her- 
self on  the  topmost  stair. 

"That's  'Lead,  Kindly  Light/"  she  said. 
*'0ne  of  my  favorites." 

"'Beulah  Land'  is  mine,"  returned  the  maid. 
"I  like  '  Whiter'n  Snow,'  too.  I  'spose  it's  'cause 
I'm  blacker'n  coal." 

Olive  knew  not  how  to  answer  this;  but,  per- 
ceiving that  the  girl  hung  deferentially  back, 
she  made  a  place  for  her  on  the  stair. 

"Sit  where  you  were,  Milly,"  she  invited, 

[43] 


THE   WOMAN    OF   IT 

"Oh  no,  ma'am,"  protested  the  servant. 
"Why  not?    You'd  do  it  in  church,  wouldn't 

you?"  ' 

Thus  urged,  she  came  forward;  and  in  demo- 
cratic equality  they  listened  together  while  the 
unseen  choir  sang  one  after  another  of  the 
hymns  which,  poetry  or  doggerel — and  many 
were  indeed  not  poetic  save  by  association- 
have  struck  deep  root  into  the  emotional  life 
of  the  race.  In  most  cases  it  was  the  tune 
which  moved  Olive;  but,  whether  by  virtue  of 
music  or  words,  all  were  hallowed,  and,  being  so, 
brought  peace.  For  the  hour,  at  least,  she  ceased 
to  borrow  trouble  for  the  morrow. 

In  this  regained  tranquillity  she  slept,  and  in 
the  morning  rose  with  a  resolve  to  face  the  or- 
deal at  once.  She  said  nothing  of  her  purpose 
to  her  husband,  for,  when  not  immersed  in  his 
breakfast  newspaper,  the  opening  of  Congress 
still  filled  his  mind. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  Ollie,"  he  told  her,  as  they 
parted,  "here's  your  pasteboard  for  the  Mem- 
bers' Gallery.  This  will  pass  you  or  any  of 
the  family  whenever  you  take  a  notion  to  see 
how  we  run  the  nation.  Why  don't  you  come 
up  at  twelve  o'clock  to-day  and  watch  the 
wheels  begin  to  turn?  I  guess  it  will  be  worth 
while.  If  you  do  take  the  trip,  start  early,  for 
the  gallery  will  probably  be  full.  If  it  wasn't 
the  first  day  I'd  say  come  and  have  a  bite  with 
me  on  Capitol  Hill." 

[44] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"That's  all  right,  Steve,"  she  said.  "Let 
the  lunch  go  till  you  feel  less  like  a  cat  in  a 
strange  garret." 

The  well-worn  simile  did  not  please  his  lofty 
mood. 

"I'm  still  a  good  deal  of  a  tenderfoot,  of 
course,"  he  rejoined;  "but  I  flatter  myself  I 
don't  look  it.  I've  been  taken  for  an  old  stager 
by  several  people.  I  don't  propose  to  let 
Washington  bluff  me!" 

Left  to  herself,  Olive  set  about  a  toilet  to 
which,  for  the  credit  of  Stephen  Braisted  and  the 
honor  of  New  York,  she  devoted  more  time  than 
on  any  other  occasion  in  her  married  life.  She 
was  more  concerned  with  the  attainment  of  an 
immaculate  neatness  than  with  a  choice  of  rai- 
ment. The  latter  business  was  simple,  inasmuch 
as  she  had  only  to  select  her  best,  about  which 
her  mind  harbored  no  faintest  doubt.  Almost 
as  basic  in  her  traditions  as  her  belief  in  the 
Decalogue  was  her  conviction  that  no  garment 
so  befitted  the  great  ceremonials  of  life  as  a 
decent  black  silk.  The  fashion  mattered  little, 
for  the  dress  instinct  was  not  keen  in  her;  it  must 
be  good  silk;  it  must  be  fast  black.  An  ances- 
tral fetish — for  her  mother  and  her  mother's 
mother  had  counted  it  a  badge  of  true  refinement 
—the  fact  that  she  had  throughout  the  lean 
years  been  forced  to  forego  its  symbolic  use 
magnified  its  value  in  her  esteem. 

But  there  was  another  detail  of  her  dress  quite 

[45] 


THE   WOMAN   OF   IT 

as  full  of  meaning  and  of  far  greater  intrinsic 
worth.  When  the  last  lock  had  been  subdued, 
the  final  hook  wedded  to  its  eyelet,  and  every 
fold  hung  to  her  taste,  Olive  opened  a  trunk 
and  from  an  inner  sanctuary  extracted  a  lac- 
quered box,  from  which,  in  turn,  she  lifted  a  limp 
parcel  done  up  in  blue  tissue-paper.  This  last 
wrapper  removed,  there  emerged  a  piece  of  yel- 
lowed lace.  Whether  fashion  would  permit  or 
frown  upon  its  present  use  detained  her  not  an 
instant.  Was  it  not  a  precious  possession,  an 
heirloom,  a  symbol,  like  the  silk?  Descending 
from  mother  to  daughter,  five  generations  had 
lovingly  fingered  its  intricate  mesh.  Pioneer 
women  all,  the  story  of  its  wanderings  epito- 
mized much  of  the  conquest  of  the  American 
wilderness.  Three  of  the  bygone  generations 
had  fastened  it  at  their  throats  with  a  cameo 
of  generous  size;  and  Olive,  though  prosperity 
had  brought  jewels,  held  religiously  to  their 
custom.  No  modern  trinket  ever  dimmed  the 
glory  of  the  brooch. 

She  set  out  on  foot,  for  it  seemed  nonsense  to 
call  a  carriage  for  such  a  tiny  journey,  and 
made  such  good  progress  that  the  forenoon  was 
still  young  when  she  turned  in  at  the  White 
House  driveway.  She  was  elated  to  perceive 
that,  of  all  the  vast  calling  army  which  would 
doubtless  besiege  the  place  during  the  month, 
she  herself  was  the  only  soul  now  bound  toward 
the  great  portico.  It  was  partly  to  secure  this 

[48] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

advantage  that  she  had  pitched  on  the  morning 
for  her  visit,  although  the  desire  to  get  it  prompt- 
ly over  with  had  played  its  part  in  her  decision. 
To  go  as  one  of  many  might  put  her  in  counte- 
nance; but  she  reasoned  that,  since  the  thing 
must  be  done,  she  would  rather  do  it  with  dig- 
nity. 

This  strategic  point  gained,  it  deeply  mortified 
her  to  discover,  on  her  arrival  at  the  door,  that 
she  had  again  mislaid  her  visiting-cards.  After 
witnessing  Fern's  chagrin  at  Beauchamp  Manor 
she  had  resolved  so  firmly  nevermore  to  offend 
that  it  seemed  incredible  she  should  now,  of  all 
times,  be  found  wanting;  and,  while  the  door- 
attendant  waited,  she  searched  her  handbag 
over  and  over,  and,  finally,  in  last  desperate 
resort,  turned  her  back  and  ransacked  a  secret 
pocket  of  the  black  silk.  When  this  quest,  too, 
proved  fruitless,  she  rounded  on  the  man  with 
a  look  of  such  complete  self-contempt  that  he 
gave  way  to  a  wide  grin,  whereupon  she,  too, 
put  a  cheerful  face  on  the  matter. 

"Some  day  I'll  forget  my  head,"  she  con- 
fided. 

"Is  it  your  card-case,  madam?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied.  "I  certainly  ought  to 
have  it  padlocked  to  my  wrist.  Well,  anyhow, 
I'm  Mrs.  Braisted — Congressman  Braisted's 
wife." 

The  official  was  obviously  prepared  for  such 
an  emergency. 

[47] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"We  can  furnish  you  with  blank  cards,  Mrs. 
Braisted,"  he  at  once  suggested. 

"Would  that  be  better?" 

"Very  much.  This  way,  please,  for  a  mo- 
ment." He  led  her  into  the  main  corridor  and 
to  a  small  corner  room  at  the  right,  just  within 
the  door  of  which  stood  a  desk. 

"You  can  write  here,"  he  said,  laying  pen  and 
cards  before  her. 

Olive  made  another  vain  dive  into  her  shop- 
ping-bag. 

"Now  it's  my  glasses  that  are  missing,"  she 
apologized.  "Probably  I  left  them  in  the  basket 
where  I  keep  my  needlework.  I  do  hate  to 
make  all  this  trouble,  but  I  must  depend  on  you 
to  do  the  writing." 

Her  friendly  mentor  seated  himself  in  her 
stead. 

"Mr.  Braisted's  first  name  is — ?" 

She  gave  it,  wondering  a  little  at  this  igno- 
rance in  one  otherwise  so  efficient. 

"You  write  a  beautiful  hand,"  she  said,  thank- 
ing him,  and,  adding  "  I'll  just  wait  out  here  where 
there  is  more  to  see,"  betook  herself  to  a  seat  on 
a  low  bench  across  the  corridor. 

Glimpses  of  high-ceiled,  stately  rooms  met  her 
glance,  and  somewhere  near  she  distinguished 
the  rustle  of  a  woman's  draperies  descending  a 
stair;  but  she  had  barely  registered  these  im- 
pressions when  her  eye  harked  back  to  the  civil- 
spoken  attendant  who  had  come  to  the  threshold 

[48] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

of  his  retreat  and  stood  staring  over  at  her 
with  her  cards  balanced  in  his  palm.  Clearly 
something  was  amiss,  though  what,  she  could 
not  divine,  and  a  wave  of  red  flooded  her  em- 
barrassed face  as  he  made  his  deliberate  way 
to  her  side.  Did  he  take  her  for  an  impos- 
tor! 

"Isn't  the  President's  wife  at  home?"  she 
queried. 

He  brightened  as  if  her  question  had  shifted 
a  burden. 

"No,"  he  said,  "but  we  note  all  calls,  you 
know,  for  the  reception-lists." 

"Are  you  perfectly  sure  she's  not  in?  I  come 
early  so  I'd  be  sure  to  find  her." 

"There  is  no  doubt  about  her  not  being  at 
home,  madam,"  he  returned,  suavely. 

Olive  rose  in  disappointment  to  depart. 

"I  suppose  you'd  ought  to  know,"  she  sighed. 
"You  probably  saw  her  go  out." 

He  did  not  gainsay  her;  but  a  glint  of  amuse- 
ment lit  his  eye,  which  she,  without  compre- 
hending it,  chanced  to  perceive.  At  the  same 
instant  the  feminine  rustle  she  had  remarked  a 
moment  since  swept  nearer,  and  now,  reaching 
an  open  space  behind  the  rear  colonnade,  em- 
bodied itself  as  the  one  lady  of  the  nation  whose 
identity  the  illustrated  prints  left  in  no  possible 
doubt.  Olive  gave  the  gracious  figure  but  a 
second's  scrutiny,  and  then  moved  to  meet  her. 

"Of  course  you're  the  President's  wife,"  she 

[49] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

said.  "I  was  afraid  I'd  missed  you.  The  man 
was  bound  you  wa'n't  on  the  premises." 

The  lady  included  her  caller  and  the  attend- 
ant in  a  single  glance,  took  the  cards  which  he 
silently  offered,  and  then,  turning  smilingly  on 
Olive,  put  out  her  hand. 

"They  don't  always  know,"  she  laughed,  as 
if  letting  her  into  a  secret.  "I  often  slip  in  and 
out  by  side  doors  without  giving  an  account  of 
myself.  It  makes  the  White  House  seem  more 
like  a  home." 

The  caller  nodded  sympathetically. 

"I  can  see  how  that  is,"  she  responded.  "You 
feel  exactly  like  a  wax  dummy  in  a  show-case. 
I  know  you  do,  because  I've  had  the  feeling 
myself  on  a  small  scale.  Whenever  strangers 
come  to  Tuscarora  Falls  folks  point  out  the 
relish  works  and  our  new  house,  and,  if  any  of 
us  happens  to  be  on  the  veranda,  they  show  us 
off  too." 

As  if  the  name  Tuscarora  supplied  a  missing 
key,  a  puzzled  expression  in  her  listener's  eyes 
gave  way  to  certainty. 

"I  use  the  Braisted  Relish  myself,"  she  said. 
"The  President  is  very  fond  of  it." 

Olive  flushed  to  the  hair  with  pleasure. 

"You  don't  tell  me,  ma'am!"  she  cried. 
''Steve  will  be  most  wonderfully  set  up  to  hear 
it.  I  little  thought  the  day  would  come  when 
I'd  stand  here  in  the  White  House  and  be  told 
a  thing  like  that!  Tell  your  husband  to  try  a 

[50] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

mite  of  the  relish  with  spring  lamb.  It's  judged 
better  than  mint-sauce  by  some.  But  listen  to 
me,  presuming  to  advise  about  the  President's 
diet!  Still,  it's  all  of  a  piece  with  the  fairy 
tale  I've  been  living  these  three  years  now.  It 
seems  sometimes  as  if  I  just  had  to  wake  up." 

A  beautiful  light  came  into  the  face  of  the 
other  woman,  and  she  slipped  her  arm  within 
Olive's. 

"Sometimes  I  pinch  myself,  too,"  she  con- 
fessed, drawing  her  toward  a  neighboring  room. 
"Let's  sit  down  and  talk  it  over." 


CHAPTER  V 

A 5  she  reviewed  the  event  on  her  way  back 
to  the  Walden  it  seemed  part  of  the  same 
impossible  dream  that  she  should  have  remained 
nearly  an  hour  in  the  White  House  talking 
steadily  of  her  own  affairs.  Noiseless  servants 
had  come,  hovered  in  doorways,  and  at  a  nod 
gone  their  way  again  with  their  messages  un- 
delivered; and  she,  perceiving  this,  had  thrice 
risen  to  go  and  twice  reseated  herself  to  answer 
some  query  of  her  hostess,  who,  sending  her 
finally  away  with  her  arms  filled  with  roses, 
had  with  her  parting  word  charged  her  to  re- 
turn. It  put  a  spell  upon  her  to  think  of  it, 
and  she  was  still  under  its  influence  when  Steve, 
coming  home  early,  found  her  seated  in  rapt 
meditation  before  the  flowers. 

"Hello!"  he  sang  out.  "That  bouquet  must 
have  cost  money.  Who  footed  the  bill?" 

"  Congress,  I  suppose." 

"What!" 

She  enjoyed  his  curiosity  a  moment. 

"They  come  from  the  White  House,  Steve. 
Just  think  of  it!" 

Braisted  stared  from  his  wife  to  the  flowers, 
and  then  closed  one  eye  in  a  skeptical  wink. 

[52] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"I'm  expecting  a  case  of  champagne  from  the 
Czar  of  Russia,  myself,"  he  drawled.  "What's 
set  you  joking,  Ollie?  It  don't  seem  natural." 

"But  I'm  in  sober  earnest.  The  President's 
wife  gave  me  these  with  her  own  hands  when  I 
made  our  call." 

"Our  call!" 

"We're  expected  to  pay  our  respects  to  the 
White  House,"  she  instructed,  rather  proud  of 
her  knowledge.  "All  the  official  people  have  to 
do  it." 

"Yes,  of  course.  Everybody  knows  that. 
But  what  is  this  about  the  President's  wife  see- 
ing you?" 

As  she  explained  he  vented  a  long  astonished 
whistle. 

"So  they  use  our  product,  do  they?"  he  in- 
terrupted. "What  a  bully  ad  I  could  get  out 
of  it!  'Endorsed  by  the  White  House!'  How 
would  that,  say  in  red  letters,  strike  you  on  the 
wrapper?" 

"No,  no!"  she  protested. 

"Only  on  the  outside  wrapper.  We  wouldn't 
touch  the  label." 

"You  mustn't  do  anything  like  that,  Steve. 
Promise  me  you  won't." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  he  agreed.  "On  second 
thought,  I  don't  hardly  suppose  I  ought.  Being 
a  Congressman  has  its  penalties.  Go  ahead 
with  your  story.  She  took  you  into  the  Blue 
Room,  you  say?" 

[53] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"I  said  it  was  the  room  with  the  blue  cur- 
tains." 

"That's  right;  and  blue  silk  walls,  too.  I 
took  particular  notice  when  I  went  through  last 
spring.  Did  you  see  the  clock?  Napoleon 
gave  it  to  Lafayette,  and  he  passed  it  along  to 
Washington.  And,  of  course,  you  saw  the  big 
East  Room  and  the  State  Dining-Room?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  did." 

"You  don't  know?" 

"No,  honestly  I  can't  remember.  I  didn't 
pay  much  attention  to  anything  but  her.  We 
had  a  long  talk,  and  I  guess  I  told  her  every- 
thing I  know.  It  wa'n't  only  about  the  relish 
and  our  hard  times.  She  was  so  sympathetic 
that  somehow  or  other  I  dug  up  a  lot  of  things 
I'd  'most  forgot.  I  even  told  her  about  my 
great-grandmother's  wedding  journey  on  a  cow, 
for  she  took  notice  of  my  pin  and  old  lace  and 
wanted  to  hear  the  whole  history.  You'd  ought 
to  have  heard  her  laugh!  Yet,  another  time, 
we  were  both  crying.  She  had  lost  children 
herself,  both  babies,  like  mine." 

Braisted  walked  over  to  a  window  and 
drummed  the  pane,  and  she  thought  that  in  his 
man's  way  he  was  moved  by  the  old  grief;  but 
when  he  presently  faced  about  it  was  not  of 
their  dead  children  that  he  spoke. 

"Don't  you  and  Mrs.  Estabrook  weigh  up 
about  even?"  he  asked. 

She  made  the  transition  slowly. 

[54] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Weigh?" 

"I  should  say  there  wasn't  a  pound's  differ- 
ence, yet  she  doesn't  look  fat.  If  it's  tailoring 
does  the  trick,  I'd  advise  you  to  try  the  same 
shop.  I  daresay  you  could  get  it  out  of  her  in 
some  roundabout  way." 

Criticism  of  her  dress  from  him  was  a  novelty, 
and  she  looked  for  the  twinkle  of  the  eye  which 
usually  accompanied  and  labeled  his  drolleries; 
but  his  expression  was  not  humorous. 

"What  put  that  in  your  head,  Steve?" 

"It  struck  me  the  other  day;  but  it  was  this 
call  of  yours  that  brought  it  back  just  now. 
Mrs.  Estabrook  could  have  warned  you  against 
such  a  break.  Not  that  it's  done  any  great 
harm,"  he  added.  "The  White  House  people 
probably  have  got  the  name  of  Braisted  fixed 
in  their  minds  in  a  way  they  otherwise  wouldn't." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  faltered. 

"I  mean  that,  playing  strictly  according  to 
rules,  you  were  dead  wrong.  All  you  were  ex- 
pected to  do  was  to  leave  those  cards,  not  ac- 
tually call.  I'm  a  verdant  proposition  here  my- 
self; but  I  could  have  put  you  onto  that.  Why 
didn't  you  ask  somebody?" 

"I  did  ask  Ben." 

"Did  Ben  Halsey  tell  you  it  was  the  proper 
thing  here  to  go  calling  in  the  forenoon?" 

"No,  no.  He  didn't  really  know;  but  he 
thought  if  I  did  as  we  do  out  home  it  would  be 
all  right.  Don't  blame  Ben." 

[55] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"I  do  blame  Ben.  He's  a  nice  sort  of  secre- 
tary to  give  you  such  advice.  I  made  a  mistake 
in  bringing  him  down  with  me.  I've  got  ac- 
quainted with  a  chap  who's  worth  ten  of  young 
Halsey.  But  Proctor  Hoyt  is  too  big  a  man 
for  a  secretary's  job.  Anyhow,  it's  a  woman 
pilot  you  need,  so  I  say  get  thick  with  some- 
body like  Mrs.  Estabrook  who  knows  the  ropes." 

"I  hate  her!"  blazed  Olive. 

"Eh?"  Her  vehemence  took  him  by  sur- 
prise. 

"I  hate  her!"  she  repeated,  in  the  sting  of 
her  mortification.  "I  wish  I  might  never  lay 
eyes  on  her  again." 

The  apparent  unreason  of  this  storm  irked  the 
man. 

"Tantrums  don't  look  well  at  your  time  of 
life,"  he  admonished.  "And  all  because  I  like 
the  fit  of  another  woman's  clothes!" 

She  gasped  at  this  analysis  of  her  outburst. 
After  all,  it  did  have  the  appearance  of  turning 
on  a  triviality.  She  was  unwilling,  however,  to  let 
him  see  how  true  his  aim  had  been,  and  in  self- 
defense  indignantly  rehearsed  what  had  drifted 
to  her  over  the  Estabrook  transom  the  night  of 
her  arrival.  But  to  her  astonishment  Steve's 
interest  focused,  not  on  Mrs.  Estabrook's  double 
dealing,  but  on  the  attitude  of  her  husband. 

"So  he  thinks  maybe  it's  worth  his  while  to 
cultivate  me,"  he  chuckled.  "Well,  I'm  will- 
ing. I  can  make  use  of  a  man  of  his  size,  by 

[56] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

and  by.  Now  try  and  bottle  up  your  feeling 
as  to  his  wife.  She's  no  more  of  a  humbug  than 
most  of  us.  Only  fools  show  their  whole  hand. 
I'm  playing  a  bigger  game  myself  than  I  let 
on." 

She  was  too  self-absorbed  to  heed  his  hint  of 
important  matters  beneath  the  surface,  and  the 
flowers  which  a  moment  ago  had  given  her  such 
proud  satisfaction  now  served  to  brim  the  salt 
cup  of  her  humiliation.  On  swift  impulse  she 
pressed  an  electric  call-bell,  and,  the  maid  who 
loved  hymns  answering,  she  thrust  the  whole 
fragrant  cluster  into  her  hands. 

"If  anybody  in  the  house  is  sick,  give  them 
these  roses,"  she  directed.  "If  not,  keep  them 
yourself,  Milly.  Keep  some  for  yourself,  any- 
how." 

Braisted  watched  the  transaction  open- 
mouthed. 

"Now,  what  in  the  name  of  reason  made  you 
do  that,  Olive?"  he  demanded,  as  the  door 
closed  on  the  mystified  negress. 

"I  couldn't  abide  the  sight  of  them  any  more." 

"I  don't  see  why." 

"Then  you're  blind." 

"Maybe  I  am;  but  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me 
fathom  why  you're  so  put  out.  No  matter  how 
you  went,  you  made  a  hit.  That's  the  main 
thing.  I'm  sorry  you  were  so  hasty  about  the 
flowers.  I'd  thought  of  sending  them  down  to 
the  dining-room  for  our  table." 

5  [57] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"I  couldn't  have  swallowed  a  morsel  with  them 
there." 

"Oh  yes,  you  could.  Things  will  look  differ- 
ent when  you  cool  off.  Those  White  House  roses 
would  have  made  people  sit  up  when  they  got 
a  hint  where  they  came  from." 

Olive  faced  him  in  stormy  desperation. 

"Stephen  Braisted,"  she  charged,  "don't  you 
dare  mention  my  call  to  a  living  soul!" 

"Oh,  hang  the  whole  business!"  he  snapped, 
taking  umbrage  himself.  "After  this,  paddle 
your  own  canoe  any  silly  way  you  like.  I'm 
glad  I'm  not  too  pig-headed  to  take  advice." 

He  tramped  huffily  out  of  the  room,  leaving 
Olive  already  repentant  of  the  outburst  which 
she  rightly  attributed  to  nerves.  After  all,  she 
reasoned,  Steve  was  not  to  blame.  Her  con- 
fidence in  her  own  judgment  was  rudely  shaken. 
If  she  could  not  be  her  natural  self,  if  the  com- 
mon sense  which  had  been  her  life-long  shield 
and  buckler  was  of  no  avail  in  this  artificial 
scheme  of  existence,  whither  should  she  turn? 

Yet,  presently,  things  did  look  a  trifle  brighter, 
as  Steve  had  foretold,  and,  her  sharp  interdict 
to  her  husband  notwithstanding,  the  White 
House  call  was  mentioned,  and  by  herself.  It 
was  Mrs.  Tully,  of  Maine,  who  pulled  her  from 
her  slough  of  despond.  When,  in  the  quiet  hour 
before  dinner,  Olive  stepped  out  of  the  elevator 
down-stairs,  the  old  lady  beckoned  her  over  to 
her  usual  coign  of  vantage,  a  leather  sofa  screened 

[58] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

from  draughts,  but  in  no  wise  isolated  from  the 
shifting  comedy  of  the  Walden  lobby. 

"I've  been  watching  for  you,"  she  announced, 
briskly. 

"I'm  thankful  somebody  feels  like  watching 
for  me,"  said  Olive,  warmed  by  her  friendliness. 

As  she  took  her  seat  Mrs.  Tully  eyed  her 
shrewdly. 

"Feel  like  a  grass  widow?"  she  queried,  and 
then,  without  awaiting  an  answer,  went  on: 
"I  did,  nearly  all  of  Mr.  Tully 's  first  session." 

"It  isn't  only  Mr.  Braisted,"  said  Olive.  "I 
miss  my  children,  too,  particularly  Fern.  It 
don't  seem  possible  she's  right  here  in  the  city. 
But  you  didn't  meet  her." 

"I  saw  her.  She's  very  sweet  and  pretty — 
more  than  pretty.  You  must  have  her  down 
for  the  first  dance  on  Saturday  week." 

Olive  caught  joyfully  at  the  suggestion. 

"I  will,"  she  said.  "I'll  write  to  Miss  Aber- 
crombie  to-night." 

"But  don't  mention  dance  to  her,"  counseled 
the  old  lady.  "She  thinks  that  nothing  less  than 
an  embassy  ball  is  good  enough  for  a  Beauchamp 
Manor  girl.  Just  say  you  want  to  have  your 
daughter  with  you  for  over  Sunday.  Trust  me 
to  see  that  she  has  plenty  of  partners.  I  know 
most  of  the  young  fellows  who  come  in  dance 
nights." 

"They  ask  people  from  outside?" 

"Dear  me,  yes.    What  sort  of  partners  would 

[59] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

these  old  fogies  make?"  she  demanded,  indicat- 
ing two  or  three  Congressmen  who  now  entered. 
"The  baldest  and  fattest  is  my  husband,"  she 
added,  laughingly.  "Yet  even  he  could  dance 
once!  He  proposed  to  me  at  a  country  hop, 
in  fact.  But  how  I  do  run  on!  What  I  set  out 
to  talk  about  was  something  very  different. 
It's  calls." 

"Oh,"  sighed  Olive,  dolorously. 

Her  companion  laughed  again. 

"You  heard  more  than  enough  of  that  sub- 
ject in  the  red  parlor,  I  see.  But  don't  you  be 
frightened  by  Harriet  Pratt.  As  I  said  before, 
you'll  enjoy  the  comic  side  of  calling,  once  you're 
started." 

"I  have  started,"  owned  Olive,  wondering 
grimly  wherein  lay  the  humor  of  her  morning's 
adventure.  "I  called  at  the  White  House  to- 
day." 

"Did  you?"  said  Mrs.  Tully,  calmly,  as  if  it 
were  a  matter  of  slight  importance.  "If  I'd 
known  you  were  going  I'd  have  walked  over 
with  you  and  left  cards  myself.  Then  maybe 
we  could  have  done  a  few  of  the  bothersome 
nobodies  who  expect  you  to  ask  if  they're  at 
home.  But  perhaps  you  prefer  to  go  alone?" 

"No,  no."  She  clutched  avidly  at  the  hope 
of  company  in  her  misery.  "I'd  be  only  too  glad 
and  thankful  to  go  with  you.  You  don't  know 
what  a  load  it  would  take  off  my  mind.  I'm 
sure  you've  no  call  to  be  so  kind." 

[60] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Don't  you  humbug  yourself,"  warned  Mrs. 
Tully,  her  eyes  twinkling.  "It's  not  kindness 
on  my  part.  It's  plain  Yankee  cuteness.  The 
Maine  soil  doesn't  grow  many  millionaires,  es- 
pecially among  its  politicians,  and  I  always  have 
to  share  carriage  expenses  with  somebody.  I 
thought  perhaps  you'd  be  willing,  as  I  know 
my  way  round  and  you  don't." 

The  new-comer  was  relieved  beyond  words. 

"But  there  won't  be  any  expenses  to  share," 
she  insisted,  with  an  instant  generosity  which 
won  her  a  friend.  "Steve  said  he  would  arrange 
for  a  rig  by  the  season  so  that  I  could  drive  any 
time  I  wanted.  You're  welcome  to  use  it  at 
any  time,  too." 

"Dear  no,"  demurred  the  old  lady.  "We 
Maine  folks  like  to  pay  our  own  way." 

"So  do  Tuscarora  people,"  declared  Olive, 
laughingly,  "and  that's  why  I  won't  take  a  cent 
from  you.  It's  a  fair  bargain;  you  furnish  the 
experience,  I  find  the  carriage." 

"If  you  really  think  I've  something  to  bar- 
ter—" 

"Oh,  do  call  it  settled,"  pleaded  Olive. 

"Well,  then,  I  will;  though  I'm  heartily 
ashamed  of  myself.  Up  to  date  we  Tullys  could 
always  say  we  were  poor  but  honest.  Now  we'll 
map  out  the  campaign.  I  won't  brag  about  my 
record  like  somebody  I  won't  mention,  but  I 
will  guarantee  to  get  you  over  a  good  piece  of 
the  ground  before  Christmas." 

[61] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

And  so  she  did;  but  it  left  her  pupil  scant 
time  for  anything  else.  With  the  exception  of 
one  flying  visit  to  the  House,  when  she  used  her 
Member's  ticket  for  the  first  time,  and,  despite 
a  conscientious  search,  failed  to  discover  Steve 
at  all,  she  viewed  the  Capitol  at  the  end  of  some 
long  vista,  or  possibly  from  some  nearer  angle, 
on  the  day  when  the  residents  in  the  immediate 
shadow  of  its  dome  received.  But,  if  she  saw 
few  of  the  stock  wonders,  she  penetrated  a  be- 
wildering number  of  hotels,  boarding-houses, 
and  semi-private  homes,  many  of  them  common- 
place, some  beautiful,  others — embassies  these — 
curiously  exotic  or,  as  she  phrased  it,  queer, 
with  humble  uncertainty  whether  to  condemn 
or  admire.  The  details  of  one  drawing-room 
blurred  with  the  next,  so  rapidly  did  these  es- 
tablishments succeed  one  another,  and  rather 
more  than  half  the  time  Olive  was  ignorant  of 
the  identity  of  her  hostess  of  the  hurrying  mo- 
ment. In  truth,  the  one  name  of  which  she  was 
at  all  times  sure  was  her  own,  which  the  usually 
colored  and  invariably  deep-voiced  footman 
would  boom  forth  with  embarrassing  distinctness. 
Everywhere  she  met  restless  throngs  of  women, 
all  bent  on  the  same  feverish  game,  all  mouth- 
ing the  same  empty  chatter.  She  enacted  a 
mute  role  herself,  in  the  main,  having  no  small 
change  of  local  gossip  as  yet.  Her  native  sup- 
ply, though  copious,  passed  current  easily  with 
none  save  the  homespun. 

[62] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

Yet,  while  she  thought  it  folly,  she  did  not 
escape  a  certain  hectic  exhilaration  whenever, 
luck  attending,  their  tally  chanced  to  reach  the 
thirties.  The  great  advantage  of  bagging  sev- 
eral hostesses  in  a  single  drawing-room — scene 
abhorrent  to  the  fastidious  Mrs.  Estabrook — 
now  became  crystal-clear;  and  when,  thanks  to 
this  frugal  custom,  they  one  afternoon  actually 
succeeded  in  breaking  Mrs.  Pratt's  vaunted 
record,  Olive  came  back  to  the  Walden  aglow 
with  triumph  and  boasted  of  the  tremendous 
achievement  to  Steve. 

"Forty-five!"  he  repeated.  "Good  work!  I 
knew  you'd  enjoy  yourself  here  as  soon  as  the 
strangeness  wore  off.  Your  toting  the  cards 
about  is  a  help  to  me  also.  I'm  too  busy  getting 
next  to  important  people  to  bother  with  the 
small  fry.  You  picked  out  a  good  running- 
mate  in  Mrs.  Tully,  though  I  hardly  think  you 
appreciate  what  shrewd  politics  you  were  play- 
ing. Her  husband  is  a  power  in  the  House. 
He's  on  the  most  important  committees." 

"Is  he?"  she  responded,  incuriously.  "I 
didn't  take  to  Mrs.  Tully  on  his  account.  In 
fact,  I'd  known  her  several  days  before  I  was 
introduced  to  him.  He's  a  plain-spoken,  simple 
sort  of  man." 

"Simple!"  Her  husband  laughed  boister- 
ously. "Jim  Tully  has  got  the  hardest  head  in 
his  delegation.  You  do  get  queer  notions  about 
people,  Ollie,  no  mistake.  But  what  about 

[63] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

Fern?"  he  asked,  as  he  caught  sight  of  a  note 
in  the  girl's  handwriting.  "  Can  she  come  down 
to  the  high  jinks  here  to-morrow  night?" 

"Yes;  but  she  don't  know  that  there's  to  be 
a  dance.  I  only  said  to  bring  her  white  muslin 
for  whatever  might  turn  up.  She  will  be  sur- 
prised. Ben  Halsey  already  has  a  programme 
for  her.  He  gave  it  to  me  to-day." 

Braisted  shifted  his  cigar  thoughtfully. 

"He  has  his  own  name  down  good  and  plenty, 
I  dare  say?" 

"No.  He  said  he  hadn't  the  cheek  to  do 
that." 

"Oh,  he  did?" 

"He  only  put  crosses  opposite  the  dances  he 
specially  wanted." 

The  man  liberated  a  series  of  meditative  smoke- 
rings. 

"Better  rub  out  a  few  of  'em,  Ollie,"  he  coun- 
seled. "I  don't  want  him  to  imagine  he's  got 
a  mortgage  on  Fern.  Between  her  good  looks 
and  my  prospects  I  expect  her  to  fly  high." 

"I  don't  want  her  to  fly  anywhere  just  yet," 
said  his  wife.  "Fern  is  only  a  child." 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHILE  she  said  nothing  about  the  matter, 
Olive  privately  determined  to  allow  Fern 
a  free  rein  with  her  programme,  and  she  was 
neither  surprised  nor  alarmed  that  it  pleased 
her  to  let  Ben  Halsey's  tentative  crosses  stand 
as  they  were.  Fern  apparently  devoted  little 
thought  to  the  subject.  She  was  girlishly  ex- 
cited over  the  unexpected  dance,  which  prom- 
ised to  surpass  even  the  brilliant  functions  ar- 
ranged by  Tuscarora  Falls's  most  exclusive 
volunteer  fire  company. 

"Why,  the  orchestra  is  part  of  the  Marine 
Band,"  said  Olive,  who  had  discovered  the  high 
rank  accorded  that  organization  in  Washington 
esteem.  "You  know  they  play  at  the  White 
House." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  nodded  Fern.  "I  shall  hear 
them  there  at  one  of  the  big  receptions  after 
New- Year's.  Miss  Abercrombie  always  gets 
invitations.  The  Beauchamp  Manor  girls  know 
how  to  appear." 

Reminded  of  her  own  adventures  in  that  august 
scene,  Olive  was  beset  by  a  longing  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  her  blunder;  but  she  had  an  intuition 

[65] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

that  while  her  daughter  would  doubtless  listen 
with  the  ready  sympathy  of  old,  she  would  also 
very  likely  sit  in  judgment  and  dispense  the  law 
according  to  Miss  Abercrombie.  The  name  of 
this  authority  was  often  in  Fern's  mouth,  and 
the  high  precepts  of  Beauchamp  Manor  already 
bore  fruit  in  practice.  The  first  noted  of  the 
new  accomplishments  was  her  novel  and  stilted 
pronunciation  of  the  endearing  "momma"  which 
had  done  loving  service  since  babyhood. 

"But  Miss  Abercrombie  says  'mama'  is  cor- 
rect," she  replied  to  Olive's  quick  protest.  "I 
don't  want  to  appear  countrified,  momma  —  I 
mean,  mama." 

"I  don't  wonder  it  sticks  in  your  throat!  You 
can  call  me  what  you  like  up  at  Beauchamp 
Manor;  but  to  my  face  it  must  be  the  old  name 
or  mother.  Take  your  choice!" 

Fern  pouted;  but  the  cloud  was  fleeting,  for 
there  were  too  many  things  to  talk  about.  As 
they  dressed  for  the  evening,  Olive  described 
the  meeting  of  the  official  ladies  in  the"red  parlor, 
and  outlined  the  exhausting  campaign,  gen- 
eraled  by  Mrs.  Tully,  which  had  followed. 

"And  pretty  nigh  the  only  change  I've  had," 
she  went  on,  "was  last  Tuesday,  when  it  come 
our  turn— 

"Came,  mother." 

"Came  our  turn  here  at  the  Walden.  It  was  a 
change, sure  enough;  but  itwa'n't — I  suppose  your 
prim  Miss  Abercrombie  would  say  *  wasn't'?" 

[66] 


THE    WOMAN   OF    IT 

Fern  considered  the  point  seriously. 

"Miss  Abercrombie  would  more  likely  say 
*was  not,'"  she  decided.  "She  is  most  par- 
ticular." 

"Well,  as  I  started  to  tell  you,  it  certainly 
was  not — how  stiff  that  sounds! — a  rest.  See- 
ing as  it's  so  near  Christmas,  we  spent  the  whole 
afternoon  hanging  evergreen  and  holly  all  over 
the  parlors.  At  any  rate,  some  of  us  did.  Mrs. 
Pratt  put  in  her  time  pointing  out  our  mis- 
takes. Mrs.  Estabrook  didn't  show  up  at  all 
for  work;  but  she  was  right  on  hand  later,  and, 
for  all  her  talk,  her  basket  was  down  on  the  hall 
table  with  the  rest.  Mrs.  Pratt  had  the  blinds 
drawn  and  the  gas  lighted,  though  it  was  still 
broad  daylight  outdoors  when  Garfield — he's  the 
head  waiter — begun  swelling  up  his  chest  like 
a  pigeon  and  calling  out  folks'  names.  How 
they  did  stream  along!  There  must  have  been 
hundreds.  Mrs.  Estabrook  edged  off  a  ways, 
as  if  she  didn't  belong  with  us,  and  held  a  little 
reception  of  her  own.  You  should  have  seen 
Mrs.  Pratt's  face!  I  stood  next  to  Mrs.  Tully, 
and  was  simply  dumfounded  at  the  packs  of 
people  who  knew  me.  Women  called  me  by 
name  that  I  couldn't  remember  I'd  ever  laid 
eyes  on,  and  when,  after  it  was  all  over,  I  went 
to  look  at  my  basket,  it  was  full !  The  only  way 
I  can  account  for  it  is  by  the  relish.  If  one  per- 
son has  mentioned  it  to  me,  there's  been  a  regi- 
ment." 

[67] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"What  did  you  wear?"  asked  Fern,  from  the 
mirror. 

"This  same  black  silk  I've  got  on.  Most  of 
the  ladies  wore  something  light." 

"So  must  you  next  time."  She  was  about  to 
quote  the  sage  of  Beauchamp  Manor;  but,  per- 
ceiving her  mother's  lips  tighten,  contented  her- 
self with  adding:  "It  will  make  a  nice  change 
for  you,"  and,  hanging  a  simple  chain  around 
her  neck,  announced  her  toilet  complete. 

"Where's  your  new  bracelet  and  the  ruby 
brooch  your  father  gave  you  your  last  birthday?" 
asked  Olive,  who  had  taken  covert  notice  of  all 
her  preparations. 

"Miss  Abercrombie  is  always  warning  the 
girls  not  to  overload  themselves  with  jewelry. 
She  says  it's  common." 

Her  mother  refrained  from  direct  comment; 
but  when  they  finally  appeared  below  stairs 
for  the  dance  she  gleamed  and  twinkled  under 
such  an  incrustation  of  ornament  that  even 
Braisted  became  observant  and  asked  whether 
she  did  not  feel  like  a  Christmas  tree,  a  remark 
which,  being  overheard  by  Fern,  destroyed  at 
a  blow  the  dignity  of  her  protest.  Steve  him- 
self, she  noted  with  suddenly  sharpened  vision, 
had  in  this  respect  exercised  most  rigid  self- 
restraint.  The  diamond  studs  he  had  acquired 
with  his  first  evening  dress,  early  in  his  meteoric 
rise,  no  longer  blazed  in  his  linen,  and  the  limbo 
of  outgrown  toys  had  likewise  engulfed  a  heavy 

[68] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

watch-chain  he  had  been  wont  to  festoon  across 
his  generous  waistline.  Hale,  ruddy,  self-con- 
tained, wearing  the  specious  air  of  prolonged 
youth  with  which  artificial  light  always  en- 
dowed him,  he  was  quite  the  most  striking  figure 
among  the  men,  and  as  such  now  became  proper 
quarry  for  Mrs.  Estabrook,  who,  elaborately 
coifed  and  modishly  gowned,  her  plump  shoul- 
ders freely  displayed,  was  toying  with  her  pro- 
gramme like  a  debutante.  At  Olive's  last  view 
of  them,  as  the  alert  Mrs.  Tully  took  Fern  and 
herself  in  charge,  she  beheld  Steve  possess  him- 
self of  the  too  obvious  dance-card  and  smilingly 
pencil  his  name.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life 
his  wife  thought  he  looked  foolish. 

True  to  her  promise,  Mrs.  Tully  assumed  an 
active  supervision  over  Fern's  interests,  and  so 
numerous  were  her  satellites  that  Ben  Halsey, 
coming  late,  found  his  modest  landmarks  set  at 
naught.  He  looked  his  straightforward,  honest, 
reliable  best  as  he  made  his  way  forward,  his 
color  heightened  by  his  haste,  and  Olive's  fond 
heart  shared  his  disappointment. 

"Truly,  I'm  sorry,  Ben,"  she  heard  Fern  mur- 
mur. "  There  were  so  many  of  them  scrambling 
for  my  card  at  once  that  I  lost  track.  You  are 
sure  of  the  supper  dance,  though,  and  the  last 
waltz.  I  wrote  your  name  down  myself.  Don't 
be  cross.  The  others  have  only  one  apiece." 

"Bother  the  others!"  he  retorted,  gloomily. 
"What  are  the  others  to  me?" 

169] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"They're  something  to  me.  A  girl  wants 
more  than  one  partner." 

"You  might  have  remembered  how  I  felt 
about  the  first  dance — your  first  in  Washington." 

She  tossed  her  head  at  his  tone. 

"Then  you  should  have  come  earlier." 

"I  couldn't.  Your  father  gave  me  such  a 
mountain  of  work  it's  a  wonder  I'm  here  at 
all." 

Olive,  trying  not  to  listen,  wondered  whether 
Steve  had  done  this  thing  of  deliberate  purpose. 
The  aggrieved  Ben  vanished  before  she  could 
console  him,  and,  as  a  loud  strain  of  orchestral 
music  gave  warning  of  the  first  number,  Fern, 
too,  sped  away  with  her  partner  toward  the 
dining-room  which  the  blacks  had  transformed 
into  a  flag-draped  hall  suggesting  little  or  noth- 
ing of  its  accustomed  use. 

With  her  usual  genius  for  choosing  posts  of 
observation,  Mrs.  Tully  now  secured  places 
which,  out  of  danger  from  collision  with  awk- 
ward dancers,  were  yet  of  the  gaiety  and  com- 
manded a  view  of  the  entire  floor. 

"Once  I  pitied  the  old  and  middle-aged  who 
sat  back  and  looked  on,"  she  said,  settling  her- 
self comfortably;  "but,  now  that  I'm  an  old  fogy 
myself,  I  actually  feel  sorry  for  the  solemn  young- 
sters who  dance.  We  put  more  vim  into  our 
merrymakings  than  this  new  generation  thinks 
polite.  But  I  except  your  daughter,  Mrs. 
Braisted,"  she  added,  immediately,  as  Fern, 

[70] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

slender  and  graceful,  glided  by.  "Her  eyes 
shine  as  if  dancing  were  meat  and  drink  to  her. 
I  hope  Beauchamp  Manor  won't  take  the  spirit 
out  of  her." 

"I'll  risk  it,"  declared  Olive,  proudly.  "I 
know  Fern." 

The  older  woman  made  no  immediate  rejoinder, 
but  her  keen  gaze  followed  Fern  while  she  danced 
and  watched  her  closely  when,  between  numbers, 
she  sought  them  out  and  chatted  vivaciously  of 
the  prodigious  nothings  which  fill  an  unspoiled 
young  girl's  existence.  After  she  had  floated 
away  on  the  rhythm  of  a  famous  waltz  Mrs. 
Tully  laid  her  hand  for  an  instant  on  the  moth- 
er's. 

"Yes,"  she  agreed,  "you  can  risk  it.  She'll 
pick  up  ways  you  can't  stand;  she'll  maybe  do 
things  you'll  like  less,  for  when  the  sap  is  young 
in  us  we're  wiser  than  Solomon  ever  was;  but 
if  her  head  gets  a  trifle  turned,  don't  fret.  Her 
heart  will  bring  it  true  again.  This  is  real  cheery 
talk  for  a  party,  isn't  it?"  she  broke  off,  with  a 
laugh,  as  Olive's  face  sobered.  "That  old  music 
set  me  prosing." 

"You've  raised  a  girl  yourself,  I  reckon?" 

"Two.  And  both  are  happily  married,  thank 
goodness!  After  all,  that's  the  main  thing  that 
gives  us  mothers  gray  hair,  but  not  in  the  way 
men  commonly  suppose.  They  think  that  we 
worry  for  fear  our  girls  won't  marry;  but  our 
real  dread  is  lest  they  marry  wrong.  Anyhow, 

[71] 


it  was  a  great  bugaboo  with  me,  though  my  own 
venture  couldn't  have  been  happier." 

"Fern's  marriage  needn't  bother  me  yet," 
commented  Olive;  but  her  mind  reverted  to 
Ben  Halsey,  who,  swallowing  his  disappointment, 
was  devoting  himself  to  the  wall-flowers  with  a 
chivalry  she  knew  to  be  characteristic.  "When 
the  time  does  come,"  she  added,  "I  suppose  she'll 
have  to  take  her  woman's  chance." 

"Yes;  and  it  will  help  a  lot  if  you'll  make  her 
realize  that  the  man  takes  a  chance,  too,"  said 
Mrs.  Tully.  "There,  standing  in  the  door,  is 
one  of  the  men  who  drew  a  blank." 

"Mr.  Estabrook?" 

"I'm  sure  of  it.  From  the  first,  that  pair  have 
struck  me  as  people  chained  to  the  ashes  of  a 
dead  passion.  Neither  of  them  can  act  a  part 
all  the  time.  He  was  off  his  guard  a  moment 
ago  when  he  caught  sight  of  his  wife.  I  don't 
think  he  expected  she  would  dance." 

It  was  Mrs.  Estabrook's  first  appearance  on 
the  floor;  and,  though  her  partner's  years  could 
have  numbered  little  more  than  half  her  own, 
she  languished  in  his  rather  gingerly  embrace 
with  such  a  fusillade  of  smiles,  pouts,  and  side- 
long glances  as  would  have  abashed  a  Romeo. 
A  mirthful  convulsion  had  its  way  with  Mrs. 
Tully's  abundant  wrinkles,  and,  hastily  un- 
furling a  fan,  she  took  her  laugh  in  com- 
fort. 

"What  a  droll  world  it  is!"  she  sighed.     "My 

[72] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

heart  bleeds  for  the  husband — there;  he's  fled, 
poor  man — and  my  sides  shake  at  her." 

Olive  could  indulge  in  neither  of  these  emo- 
tions. On  tenter-hooks  of  dismay,  she  could 
only  ask  herself  what  sort  of  figure  her  Steve 
would  cut  when  it  came  his  turn  to  guide  this 
preposterous  woman  in  the  dance.  As  it  fell 
out,  however,  his  number  was  a  quadrille,  and 
Mrs.  Estabrook's  flirtatious  battery,  handi- 
capped by  long  range,  became  less  deadly;  but 
it  was  still  active  enough  to  divert  every  one 
save  Olive,  who,  crimson  with  vicarious  em- 
barrassment while  the  spectacle  lasted,  still 
seethed  when  Braisted,  rather  pleased  with 
himself  on  the  whole,  sauntered  over  to  her 
chair. 

"The  old  dog  hasn't  forgotten  all  his  tricks," 
he  beamed.  "Guess  I  surprised  you,  didn't  I?" 

"You  did,"  agreed  his  wife,  crisply. 

"I  can't  remember  just  when  I  footed  it  last," 
he  continued,  disregarding  her  coolness  and 
turning  to  Mrs.  Tully;  "but  I  think  I  did  so-so. 
What  do  you  say?" 

"I  certainly  enjoyed  watching  you,"  said  the 
old  lady,  demurely. 

Braisted  put  his  own  interpretation  on  her 
diplomatic  response. 

"There  you  are,  Ollie,"  he  laughed.  "Mrs. 
Tully  doesn't  think  I'm  too  old,  and  if  I'm  not, 
neither  are  you.  There's  to  be  a  Virginia  reel 
by  and  by.  Let  me  lead  you  out." 

6  [73] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"I  couldn't  be  bribed  to  do  it,"  she  answered, 
ungraciously. 

Her  tone  nettled  him;  but  he  affected  to  take 
her  remark  in  jest. 

"She  is  really  dying  to  dance,"  he  confided, 
in  mock  aside  to  Mrs.  Tully,  who  began  to  find 
her  role  difficult;  "but  she's  jealous  because  I 
asked  another  woman  first." 

"Jealous!"  That  luckless  word,  painfully 
close  to  the  truth,  scout  the  thought  as  she  might, 
blew  her  smoldering  wrath  to  a  flame.  "Jeal- 
ous of  her!  Couldn't  you  see,  Steve,  that  you 
two  were  just  a  laughing-stock  for  the  whole 
hotel?" 

The  orchestra  opportunely  struck  up  a  two- 
step,  and  the  man  removed  himself  with  what 
grace  he  could  muster.  Olive  gnawed  her  heart 
in  helpless  gloom.  Her  pride  forbade  her  to 
discuss  the  matter;  but  neither  could  she  talk 
of  indifferent  things.  Happily  Mrs.  Tully  came 
to  the  rescue  with  lively  chatter  of  nothing  in 
particular  which  cloaked  the  real  and  absorbing 
purpose  of  both  women  to  mark  the  further 
movements  of  the  outraged  Steve. 

The  veteran  observer,  surveying  mankind 
from  the  viewpoint  of  a  laughing  philosopher, 
could  forecast  Braisted's  course  with  fair  ac- 
curacy; but  Olive,  whose  matrimonial  tempests 
had  never  before  centered  around  a  third  person 
feminine,  was  utterly  taken  aback  by  the  abandon 
of  his  protest.  Not  only  did  he  devote  himself 

[74] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

throughout  the  supper  interval  to  the  heaping 
of  Mrs.  Estabrook's  plate  in  plain  view  of 
Mrs.  Tully  and  his  fasting  helpmate,  but  he  re- 
peated his  prime  offense  with  such  sweeping  in- 
difference to  what  any  one  might  say  that  his 
wife  was  stricken  with  fears  for  his  sanity.  No 
tame  quadrille  or  lancers  this  time  sufficed. 
Nothing  but  a  round  dance,  a  dreamy  waltz  by 
preference,  could  express  the  reckless  scope  of 
his  revolt;  and  the  joint  effect  of  his  gymnastics 
and  Mrs.  Estabrook's  languishing  archness  rocked 
the  little  world  of  the  Walden  with  a  mirth 
which  became  a  joyous  tradition  for  many 
days. 


CHAPTER  VII 

BRAISTED  did  not  hasten  his  bed-going 
that  night;  but,  late  as  it  was,  he  found  his 
wife  still  up,  for  Olive,  grieved  now  rather  than 
angry,  had  purposely  loitered  in  Fern's  room 
that  she  might  make  peace  with  him  before  she 
slept.  As  he  entered  their  sitting-room  she 
closed  Fern's  door  and  faced  him  with  a  con- 
ciliatory smile. 

"I  want  to  see  you,  Steve,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  you  do!"  he  grunted,  brushing  by  to  his 
desk. 

She  waited  patiently  for  him  to  tire  of  opening 
and  shutting  drawers. 

"Well?"  he  conceded,  at  last.     "What  is  it?" 

"Only  this;  it's  never  been  like  us  to  flare  up 
before  folks,  and  I'm  sorry  for  my  part  of  it." 

He  listened  stiff-necked  and  surly. 

"That  all?"  he  demanded,  after  a  pause. 

"Yes;  that's  all."  j 

"Then  I've  got  something  to  say  myself;  but 
it's  no  apology,  and  don't  you  expect  one  for  a 
minute.  When  I'm  wrong  I  know  it  as  soon  as 
the  next  person." 

"I'm   not   asking   you   to   apologize,    Steve. 

[76] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

Nobody  accuses  you  of  anything  wrong.  I  got 
mad  at  you  down-stairs  because  I  always  want 
to  feel  proud  of  you,  and  when  to-night — well, 
people  did  laugh.  I  saw  them.  And  you  know 
yourself  that  Mrs.  Estabrook — " 

"There  you  go!"  he  crashed  in,  wrathfully. 
"I'd  have  bet  my  head  that  would  bob  up.  Now 
you  listen  to  me!  It  doesn't  matter  a  tinker's 
dam  whether  I  can  dance  or  not,  or  whether 
Mrs.  Estabrook  can  dance  or  not.  The  real 
question  is,  are  you  going  to  be  a  help  to  me  or 
a  handicap?" 

Her  eyes  filled  with  instant  tears. 

"Steve!  You  can  ask  that?  And  after  all 
these  years?" 

"I  can  ask  it  because  I'm  not  living  in  the 
past,  but  in  the  present;  and  by  that  I  don't 
mean  Tuscarora  Falls,  where  you  seem  to  be 
vegetating  still.  My  post-office  address  is  Wash- 
ington, D.  C.  Things  can't  be  done  in  any  one- 
horse  way  in  this  town,  and  whether  you  like 
the  customs  of  the  place  or  not,  it's  a  case  of 
fall  in  line  or  be  left  behind  with  the  two-spots. 
Now  1  don't  propose  to  be  left  behind." 

"God  forbid  I  should  hinder  you." 

"Then  learn  city  ways;  mix  with  the  people 
who'll  be  useful.  I've  got  too  much  at  stake  to 
take  a  back  seat.  I'm  not  publishing  all  I've 
got  in  mind  these  days — I'm  bound  in  confidence 
to  keep  a  good  many  matters  dark — but  this  I  will 
say,  that  if  things  go  as  they  should,  the  Tusca- 

[77] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

rora  concern  will  only  be  a  side  issue,  a  mere 
patch  on  my  interests.  In  fact,  the  time  may 
come  when  we'll  not  want  to  bother  with  it  any 
longer." 

She  took  fright  at  his  audacious  dreams. 

"Oh,  don't  ever  kick  away  the  ladder  we've 
climbed  by,  Steve,"  she  implored;  "it's  tempt- 
ing Providence." 

He  had  talked  himself  into  good-humor  now 
and  could  laugh  at  her  pious  apprehension. 

"I  only  said  the  time  might  come,"  he  re- 
assured; "but  I  dare  say  I'll  never  be  too  busy 
to  keep  an  eye  on  the  old  plant.  A  pickle  trust 
may  come  along  and  squeeze  us  some  day;  but 
I'm  losing  no  sleep  about  it.  Maybe  I'll  be  in  a 
position  to  do  the  squeezing  myself  if  it  ever 
comes  to  a  merger.  But  never  mind  that.  And 
never  mind  my  shortness  just  now  either,  Ollie. 
You'll  see  yet  that  my  head  is  screwed  on  right 
side  foremost." 

She  said  "All  right,  Steve,"  and  would  have 
gone  to  bed  with  a  tranquil  mind  had  not  Fern's 
programme  chanced  to  fall  under  Braisted's 
eye.  With  an  angry  imprecation  which  drew 
her  round,  he  flattened  the  crumpled  card  be- 
neath the  drop-light  and  searched  it  from  end  to 
end.  It  was  not  easy  to  decipher.  The  chirog- 
raphy  tilted  at  every  angle,  and  in  some  instances 
gave  place  to  hieroglyphics,  while  one  partner 
with  a  turn  for  caricature  had  merely  indicated 
himself  as  a  long  nose  surmounted  by  eyeglasses. 

[78] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

Where  the  name  Halsey  occurred,  he  perceived 
that  the  girl  herself  had  recorded  it. 

"Olive!"  he  called,  sharply. 

His  wife  came  back  to  his  side. 

"What's  wrong,  Steve?" 

"A  lot.  You  pinned  Ben  Halsey  down  to  two 
dances,  I  see.  Well,  even  two  proved  too 
many." 

"Hush!"  she  warned.     "Fern  will  hear  you." 

"She'll  hear  me  in  the  morning  flat  enough," 
he  promised,  grimly.  "Our  talk  drove  her  affair 
out  of  my  mind  for  the  moment.  Nice  business 
my  secretary  is  up  to!" 

Olive's  motherhood  left  her  sympathies  no 
choice  of  sides. 

"I  hope,  Steve,  you  haven't  done  anything 
rash?" 

Braisted  rapped  the  programme  smartly  with 
the  back  of  his  hand. 

"When  you  were  rubbing  out  Halsey's  crosses," 
he  demanded,  "why  didn't  you  make  a  clean 
sweep?" 

"I  didn't  interfere  at  all,"  she  owned,  frankly. 
"I  left  it  to  Fern's  common  sense." 

"Her  common  sense!     She  hasn't  any." 

"What  has  the  child  done?  Why  don't  you 
tell  me  what's  happened?" 

But  the  programme  still  obsessed  him. 

"If  you  let  her  have  the  run  of  it,  how  did  it 
happen  he  didn't  get  more?" 

She  explained,  and  he  gave  a  harsh  laugh. 

[79] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Pity  I  didn't  delay  him  still  more!  I  would 
have  done  it  if  I'd  had  my  wits  about  me.  Per- 
haps then  the  mischief  wouldn't  have  happened. 
I  tell  you  I'll  nip  this  thing  in  the  bud  if  I  have 
to  spank  her  and  boot  him.  The  impudence  of 
the  fellow!  Does  he  make  a  red  cent  that  I 
don't  pay  him?  Has  he  any  prospects  what- 
ever? Is  she  to — " 

"For  mercy's  sake  tell  me  what  you're  blus- 
tering about,"  broke  in  his  wife.  "What  crime 
have  these  children  committed?" 

"Oh,  it's  no  joking  matter,"  he  retorted. 
"These  two  little  fools  have  come  to  some  kind 
of  an  understanding." 

Olive  threw  up  her  hands. 

"Has  Ben  said  something?" 

"To  me?"  His  expression  would  have  done 
credit  to  an  ogre.  "I  should  remark  not.  Just 
let  the  puppy  dare  mention  it  to  me!" 

"Then  how  do  you  know  anything  about  it? 
I'm  sure  you  didn't  get  it  from  Fern.  She 
would  naturally  come  to  me  first." 

"  She  has  come  to  nobody,  the  sly  minx !  What 
I  know  I  saw  myself  in  a  dark  corner.  Toward 
the  end  of  the  evening  I  happened  on  them  sitting 
out  a  dance,  and  he  was  kissing  her." 

He  dramatized  his  climax  with  such  impetu- 
osity that  his  final  words  hissed;  and  Olive,  in- 
stead of  expressing  horror,  met  him  with  a  smile. 

"You  sound  like  a  steam-boiler,"  she  said.  "I 
hope  they  didn't  see  you." 

[80] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

Her  calm  staggered  him. 

"Eh?"  he  gasped. 

"Did  they  see  you?" 

"Is  that  all  you've  got  to  say?  I  should 
think,  as  a  mother — " 

"But  did  they?     Answer  my  question,  Steve." 

"No.     I  stepped  back.     It  wasn't  the  place — " 

"Thank  goodness!"  she  exclaimed,  with  re- 
lief. "Now  don't  mention  it  to  either  of  them, 
poor  young  things!  Leave  this  to  me,  Steve. 
A  woman — " 

"Not  mention  it!"  he  cried.  "You  bet  I'll 
mention  it.  This  tomfoolery  is  going  to  end 
right  here.  I'll  see  Miss  Fern  first  and  take  the 
nonsense  out  of  her  in  short  order.  You  let  me 
manage  her.  It  needs  a  firm  hand,  a  man's 
hand—" 

His  disquisition  on  the  masculine  touch  was 
never  finished,  for  Fern,  a  pale,  ghostly  presence 
in  her  nightgown,  issued  suddenly  from  her 
bedroom  and  braved  him  with  a  school-girl's 
notion  of  high  tragedy,  which  but  for  her  intense 
seriousness  would  have  been  supremely  comic. 

"I  heard,"  she  said,  addressing  herself  with 
sepulchral  solemnity  to  her  father.  "I  couldn't 
help  but  hear,  and  I  should  have  been  a  coward 
not  to  come  out  and  answer  you.  It  is  better 
so.  You  might  as  well  know  my  mind  now  as 
to-morrow  morning." 

Braisted's  jaw  dropped. 

"Your  mind!"  he  repeated,  feebly. 

[81] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Yes,  father.  I  love  Ben,  and  I  always  shall. 
Nothing  you  can  say  will  make  any  difference 
in  the  end.  We'll  surely  marry  some  day,  even 
if  you  thwart  us  now." 

"Marry  now!"  Her  father  lifted  eloquent 
hands  to  Heaven.  "My  God,  listen  to  the 
brat!" 

"That  is  the  language  of  passion,  and  I  there- 
fore overlook  it,"  rejoined  Fern,  with  a  stateli- 
ness  of  diction  Miss  Abercrombie  might  have 
envied.  "You  do  not  seem  to  realize  that  love 
has  made  a  woman  of  me.  When  I  said  'now' 
I  referred  to  your  opposition,  not  to  an  immediate 
marriage.  Ben  and  I  are  very  practical.  We 
appreciate  that  he  must  work  hard  and  be  very 
saving,  too.  I  have  already  put  by  some  of  my 
allowance,  and  they  give  a  course  of  chafing- 
dish  lessons  at  school  which — " 

"There,  there,  dearie,"  interposed  Olive,  plac- 
ing an  arm  around  the  erect  young  shoulders 
and  drawing  her  away.  "Never  mind  the 
cooking-lessons  to-night.  Get  back  to  bed  be- 
fore you  take  your  death  of  cold.  You  and  I 
will  have  a  good  talk  in  the  morning." 

But  Fern,  assured  of  her  mother's  support, 
stood  her  ground. 

"It's  the  talk  with  father  I  want  settled,"  she 
insisted.  "If  he  were  still  clerking  in  the  hard- 
ware-store back  in  Tuscarora  Falls,  he  could 
sympathize  with  Ben  and  do  him  justice.  What 
is  the  good  of  all  our  money  if  it  is  to  come  be- 

[82] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

tween  me  and  my  happiness?  It  ought  to  be 
used  to  help  Ben,  not  to  hinder  him.  Why 
shouldn't  I  help?  Where  would  we  all  be  if 
mother  hadn't  helped  you?  It  was  her  idea — " 

"Fern,  Fern,"  remonstrated  Olive,  "don't 
speak  that  way  to  your  father.  How  many 
times  have  I  told  you  that  it  took  his  brains — " 

"Let  him  be  fair  then,"  proclaimed  the  rebel. 
"I  want  him  to  promise  me  not  to  hurt  Ben's 
feelings;  I  want  him  to — " 

"Make  Ben  the  first  vice-president  of  the 
Braisted  Imperial  Relish  Company,  I  suppose?" 
suggested  her  father,  blandly.  "Or  maybe 
you'd  rather  see  him  ambassador  to  England 
or  Secretary  of  the  Treasury?  Don't  be  bashful. 
Nothing  is  too  good  for  a  man  with  a  brain  of 
his  caliber.  Just  pick  the  job  and  let  me  know." 

Fern's  statuesque  pose  suddenly  gave  way, 
and  her  face  went  awry  like  a  hurt  child's. 

"It's  cruel  of  you  to  make  a  joke  of  me," 
she  declared,  bursting  into  tears.  "It's  cruel, 
cruel!" 

Braisted  gazed  helplessly  at  the  change  he 
had  wrought;  and  as  Olive,  telegraphing  re- 
proaches across  the  heaving  shoulders,  gathered 
the  girl  to  her  breast,  he  too  came  to  her  side 
and  made  awkward  peace  offerings. 

"Everything  will  be  all  right,  Fern,"  he  said. 
"Get  to  bed  now  as  your  mother  tells  you. 
Everything  will  be  all  right." 

He  stared  wonderingly  after  the  twain  as  they 

[83] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

disappeared  together,  and  then,  with  equal  be- 
wilderment, questioned  his  own  image  un- 
heroically  reflected  in  the  mirror  over  the 
mantelpiece.  In  the  same  abstraction  he  fished 
a  cigar  from  his  pocket  and  lighted  it  at  the 
wrong  end.  To  him,  as  to  most  of  his  sex,  the 
process  by  which  a  woman  in  the  wrong  can  so 
juggle  the  vital  issue  that  the  man  himself  shall 
feel  at  fault,  was  an  eternal  mystery.  After  a 
half-hour  which  yawned  like  a  millennium,  the 
door  of  Fern's  room  reopened  and  Olive  stole 
softly  forth. 

"Well?"  he  queried,  with  an  ironic  smile 
which,  though  inadequate,  seemed  the  only  mask 
to  turn  upon  the  humiliating  situation.  *'  What's 
the  latest  from  the  seat  of  war?" 

His  wife  enjoined  quiet  with  a  gesture. 

"She's  asleep  now,  the  lamb." 

"Asleep!  Merciful  powers!  I  wish  I  could 
take  it  that  easy!" 

"There  is  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't,  Steve. 
It  needn't  have  bothered  you  at  all  if  you  had 
left  it  to  me  in  the  beginning.  It's  all  settled." 

"Settled!  She  agrees  to  quit  her  nonsense? 
She'll  give  him  up?" 

"Don't  get  the  cart  before  the  horse.  What 
do  you  expect  of  the  child  in  half  an  hour!  She 
says,  of  course,  that  she'll  never  care  for  any 
one  else,  and  that  marry  him  she  will  some  day. 
It's  a  thing  we  can  only  leave  to  time." 

The  beatific  relief  which  had  played  over  her 

[84] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

husband's  face  at  her  first  words  now  winked 
out  in  total  eclipse. 

"So  that's  your  settlement!"  he  exclaimed, 
disgustedly. 

"Do  be  patient.  You  can't  treat  a  young 
girl's  first  love  affair  like  a  business  deal.  Now 
listen:  you  must  agree,  in  the  first  place,  not  to 
say  a  word  about  this  to  Ben  or  let  what  you 
know  influence  you  against  him  in  any  way." 

Braisted  swore  a  mouth-filling  oath  which 
Olive  let  rumble  into  futility  without  contra- 
diction. 

"And  for  her  part,"  she  went  on,  "Fern  prom- 
ises on  her  honor  that  she  won't  say  a  word  to 
Ben  about  what  we  know  or  feel.  She  agrees, 
too,  that  while  she's  in  school  there  sha'n't  be 
any  love-making,  or  even  letter-writing,  between 
them." 

"That's  something." 

"There's  more.  I'm  to  give  her  a  chance  to 
tell  him  this  to-morrow  as  if  it  came  from  her- 
self alone,  and  at  the  same  time  she'll  make  it 
clear  that  he  mustn't  consider  they're  engaged. 
She's  real  sensible  about  it,  Steve,  and,  unless 
you  are  hasty,  she  won't  dream  of  doing  any- 
thing rash." 

Braisted  digested  this  pyrrhic  victory  in  frown- 
ing silence. 

"That's  all  very  well  for  the  present,"  he  said, 
finally,  "though  it's  going  to  be  a  strain  on  my 
temper  to  keep  bottled  up  before  young  Halsey. 

[85] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

But  what  about  the  future?  What's  going  to 
happen  when  Fern  leaves  school?" 

Olive  had  reached  the  end  of  her  tether. 

"You  would  have  settled  that,  too,  in  half  an 
hour,  I  presume?  Not  being  a  man,  I  didn't. 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do  if  she  thinks  the  same 
when  she  leaves  school,  she'll  have  the  spunk 
to  marry  him  whatever  we  say.  She  wouldn't 
be  worth  her  salt  if  she  didn't.  Now  I  for  one 
am  going  to  bed." 

Her  husband  faced  the  future  with  less  com- 
posure. Though  bound  to  silence  as  regards 
his  secretary,  he  made  up  his  mind  that,  so  far 
as  he  could  contrive  it,  Ben  Halsey's  meetings 
with  Fern  should  be  few;  and  since  the  Christ- 
mas holidays  seemed  to  him  particularly  dan- 
gerous, he  one  day  caught  eagerly  at  a  casual 
remark  of  Olive's  that  Fern  had  been  invited 
to  New  York. 

"Write  her  to  accept  at  once,"  he  directed. 
"It's  a  godsend." 

The  mother  was  smitten  with  dismay. 

"But  her  heart  isn't  set  on  it,"  she  protested, 
reading  Fern's  note  afresh.  "She  only  men- 
tions it  by  the  way,  and  goes  on  to  say  how  much 
she  counts  on  being  with  us." 

"With  Ben,  she  means.  He's  the  star  attrac- 
tion in  these  parts." 

Olive  refused  to  believe  her  child  so  two- 
faced. 

"We've  both  counted  on  it  for  months,"  she 

[86] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

said.  "Even  before  we  left  home  we  used  to 
talk  it  over.  There  are  no  end  of  things  we 
planned  to  do.  And  besides,"  she  urged,  cast- 
ing about  for  a  clinching  argument,  "as  soon  as 
you  favor  her  going  out  of  town  she'll  suspect 
your  real  reason." 

"Of  course.  That's  why  you  must  do  the 
talking.  I  fell  in  with  your  idea  of  ignoring 
Halsey's  impudence,  even  though  it  was  a  bitter 
pill,  and  now  I  insist  on  being  met  half-way 
myself.  Tell  her  to  go,  by  all  means.  Tell 
her  it's  a  part  of  her  education,  for,  this  fool 
love  affair  aside,  I  don't  think  she  ought  to  miss 
a  chance  to  visit  people  who  live  in  New  York. 
Did  you  say  the  name  was  Brown?" 

"No,  Blount.  You've  heard  of  him,  Steve. 
They  call  him  some  kind  of  a  king,  don't  they? 
Is  it  guano — " 

Braisted  swung  suddenly  about. 

"Marshall  Blount!"  he  cried. 

"Why,  yes.  What  has  stirred  you  up  so? 
You're  staring  like  one  possessed." 

He  brushed  his  forehead  hazily. 

"I  happened  to  think  of  something,  a  business 
proposition,"  he  answered,  vaguely.  "How  did 
Fern  get  in  with  a  daughter  of  Marshall  Blount?" 

"Philippa  Blount's  room  is  just  across  the 
hall  from  Fern's.  I  meant  to  tell  you  that;  but 
so  much  has  happened  that  I  clean  forgot  to 
mention  it." 

Under   his    eager    questioning   she    rehearsed 

[87] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

the  story  of  her  meeting  with  the  heiress,  and 
the  singular  fact  that  Philippa  knew  Ben. 

"Ben  Halsey  a  friend  of  Blount's  daughter!" 
Steve  interrupted.  "Does  he  know  Marshall 
Blount,  too?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  can't  even  tell  you  how  he 
met  her.  I  forgot  to  ask  Fern  when  she  was 
here.  But  I  do  remember  now  what  Marshall 
Blount  is  king  of,"  she  added.  "It  isn't  guano. 
It's  asphalt,  and — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  nodded,  impatiently.  "Scratch 
off  a  note  to  Fern  right  away.  There  mustn't 
be  any  doubt  about  her  going  to  New  York. 
Maybe  she  doesn't  realize  what  asphalt  has 
done  for  old  Mart  Blount,  who  was  smaller  fry 
than  we  were  in  the  beginning.  Tell  her  she's 
been  asked  to  a  palace." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HIS  secretary  became  a  more  important 
figure  in  Braisted's  eyes  thenceforth.  He 
studied  Ben  from  a  fresh  angle  as  they  sorted 
the  mail  the  next  forenoon  in  Steve's  quarters 
in  the  House  Office  Building,  and  told  himself 
the  chap  really  measured  up  well  alongside  other 
congressional  secretaries.  He  had  a  rather 
strong  face,  had  Ben,  when  you  looked  him  over 
critically,  and  there  was  something  very  likable 
in  his  frank,  gentlemanly  bearing.  He  was  not 
to  be  thought  of  for  a  son-in-law,  of  course — 
that  poppycock  was  settled — but,  after  all,  he 
was  no  bad  choice  for  his  present  berth.  If  he 
was  capable  of  making  friends  in  high  places 
he  might  prove  a  useful  asset. 

"My  wife  tells  me  you  know  Marshall  Blount's 
girl,"  Braisted  threw  off,  carelessly. 

"Yes,"  said  Ben. 

"Known  her  long?" 

"Two  years." 

Braisted  waited  for  details;  but  Ben  went  on 
slitting  envelops. 

"Two  years,  eh?"  It  was  annoying  to  have 
to  pump  for  information  from  your  own  secre- 
tary. "Ever  meet  Blount  himself?" 

7  189] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"Yes.  Here's  your  first  application  for  free 
seed,  Mr.  Braisted.  You'll  get  so  many  of  these 
that  you'll  have  to  borrow  from  some  city  mem- 
ber's quota." 

Steve  could  never  be  diplomatic  long. 

"I'll  speak  to  Estabrook  about  it,"  he  said, 
impatiently,  and  returned  to  the  main  issue. 
"How  did  you  get  in  with  the  multimillionaire 
bunch,  Ben?  I  hadn't  sized  you  up  as  a  society 
butterfly." 

"I'm  not.  Neither  is  Miss  Blount,  for  that 
matter.  That's  why  we  made  friends  easily, 
I  think.  There  is  no  nonsense  about  her.  She 
hasn't  any  more  use  for  loafing  than  her  father 
has,  and  everybody  knows  his  caliber.'* 

Steve  nodded  sagely. 

"Regular  dynamo,  they  say.  But  you  started 
to  tell  me  how  you  met  the  Blounts." 

"It  came  about  while  I  was  in  college.  One 
summer  I  went  up  on  the  Maine  coast  to  visit 
a  friend  whose  father  has  a  summer  home  near 
Kennebunkport.  Marshall  Blount  has  a  place 
there,  too,  you  know.  I  met  Philippa  at  tennis, 
and  got  to  know  her  well  before  the  summer  was 
over." 

"And  Blount — did  you  get  to  know  him  well?" 

Ben  laughed. 

"Not  what  you'd  call  chummy.  Still,  I  did 
see  him  often,  and  he  was  as  friendly  as  you 
could  expect  such  a  man  to  be  with  a  college 
boy.  He  even  offered  to  give  me  a  job  some  day." 

[90] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"What!"  His  employer  straightened  in  his 
chair.  "Marshall  Blount  offered  you  a  posi- 
tion?" 

"Yes.  I  suspect  Philippa  put  him  up  to  it. 
She  was  always  asking  me  what  I  meant  to  make 
of  myself.  I  told  Mr.  Blount  that  I  intended 
to  study  law,  and  he  said  to  drop  around  when 
I  had  been  admitted  to  the  bar." 

Braisted's  face  mirrored  a  strenuous  thought- 
process. 

"Look  here,  Ben,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "I 
don't  want  to  stand  in  the  way  of  your  future. 
You  tie  up  to  that  man  the  first  chance  you  get. 
Don't  let  an  opportunity  like  that  get  by  you." 

"I  never  took  Mr.  Blount 's  offer  seriously." 

"Then  it's  time  you  did.  Get  busy.  It's  a 
chance  in  a  thousand.  I'll  find  another  secre- 
tary." 

"But  I'm  not  a  lawyer  yet.  I  don't  take  my 
bar  exams  till  spring." 

"Well,  nail  him  in  the  spring  then.  Mean- 
while keep  in  touch  with  the  girl.  See  Blount 
himself  if  you  can." 

"I  do  call  at  the  school  occasionally;  but  I'm 
not  likely  to  run  across  Philippa's  father  any- 
where. He's  seldom  in  Washington,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know.  He  doesn't  need  to  come. 
He  makes  Washington  go  to  him." 

"There's  something  in  that." 

"There's  a  whole  lot  in  it.  That  man's 
power — "  He  made  a  vague,  spacious  gesture. 

[91] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Ben,"  he  went  on,  trying  to  speak  with  un- 
concern, "I  want  to  meet  Marshall  Blount 
sometime,  and  I'll  look  to  you  to  fix  it  up." 

"I'll  remember  that." 

Halsey  returned  to  his  letters;  but  Braisted, 
staring  out  of  the  window,  reared  air -castles 
that  overtopped  the  great  dome  across  the  way. 

"Of  course,  I  may  meet  him  through  Fern," 
he  added,  as  if  thinking  aloud.  "Did  I  men- 
tion that  she's  going  to  the  Blounts'  for  the 
holidays?" 

"Fern!"  Ben's  face,  no  less  than  his  tone, 
revealed  his  surprise  and  disappointment. 

"Yes.  We'll  miss  her,  naturally;  but  as  I 
tell  her  mother,  it's  part  of  her  education. 
Doesn't  it  strike  you  that  way?" 

"It  depends  on  what  you  call  education." 
The  words  came  with  difficulty. 

Steve  decided  to  give  this  misguided  youth  a 
hint. 

"I  admit  I'm  pleased,"  he  continued.  "It's 
done  me  no  end  of  good  to  learn  that  my  girl 
has  it  in  her  to  make  the  right  sort  of  friends. 
I  expect  big  things  of  Fern." 

Ben  appeared  not  to  heed. 

"It  won't  seem  a  real  Christmas  to  Mrs. 
Braisted,"  he  said.  "She  has  been  counting  so 
on  having  Fern  with  her." 

"Oh,  Olive  will  have  S.  J.  to  run  about  with," 
replied  Braisted,  easily.  "And  she  still  has  a 
husband." 

[92] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

But  it  fell  out  that  Olive  did  not  have  Steve 
junior  to  run  about  with.  At  the  last  moment 
the  boy  wired  the  tremendous  news  that  he  had 
suddenly  made  the  Glee  Club,  and  would  ac- 
company that  famous  organization  on  tour. 
They  were  forlorn  holidays  for  Olive.  With  the 
beginning  of  the  congressional  recess  the  Walden 
suffered  as  swift  a  blight  as  if  it  had  been  over- 
taken by  a  medieval  plague.  The  lobby  was 
cheery  no  longer;  its  once  lively  rockers  gathered 
dust;  the  depopulated  dining-room  became  a 
hall  of  echoes,  curtailed  cuisine,  and  indifferent 
service.  All  whose  homes  were  within  practi- 
cable distance  trooped  off  like  children  freed 
from  school.  The  people  who  remained  derived 
chiefly  from  the  Far  West,  or  were  bond  slaves 
of  the  countless  departments  of  which  Olive, 
guide-book  in  hand,  now  took  laborious  note. 

In  these  researches  Stephen  Braisted  found  no 
leisure  to  join.  His  committee  assignments  were 
none  of  them  important  enough  to  encroach 
upon  his  vacation;  but  his  days  and  nights 
seemed  as  busy  as  ever.  So  absorbed  was  he, 
in  fact,  in  his  own  mysterious  concerns  that  it 
never  entered  his  head  till  Christmas  morning 
that  he  had  chosen  no  gift  for  his  wife.  As  she 
had  purchased  his  present  months  before,  the 
lavish  check  by  which  he  sought  to  make  amends 
failed  to  atone  for  his  lapse;  but  the  man  saw 
no  hint  of  her  true  feeling.  Since  the  night  of 
the  dance,  self-restraint  had  been  Olive's  watch- 

[93] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

word.  Yet,  in  her  brooding  thoughts,  the  in- 
cident set  itself  apart  as  a  significant  milestone 
on  the  uncertain  road  they  were  traveling.  She 
could  hoodwink  herself  no  longer;  their  com- 
radeship was  a  thing  of  the  simpler  past. 

To  the  past  also,  she  feared,  belonged  the  ten- 
der intimacy  which  had  existed  between  herself 
and  the  children.  Let  Fern's  heart  beat  ever  so 
true,  she  could  scarcely  look  upon  the  old  ways 
with  the  same  eyes.  Even  if  Beauchamp  Manor 
had  sown  no  seeds  of  unrest,  could  Tuscarora 
Falls  seem  other  than  humdrum  after  her  taste 
of  life  in  the  stone  palace  on  Fifth  Avenue? 
Automobiles,  theaters,  the  opera,  liveried  ser- 
vants, costly  foods,  luxurious  rooms — her  kaleido- 
scopic letters  read  as  if  written  in  a  foreign  land. 
As  for  S.  J.,  his  brief  scrawls  could  scarcely  be 
termed  letters;  but  he  was  prodigal  of  press- 
clippings  detailing  the  junket  of  the  Glee  Club 
and  the  festivities  in  various  cities  to  which  its 
presence  gave  rise.  She  felt  as  if  her  son  had 
joined  a  minstrel  troupe. 

But  for  the  hour  it  was  not  the  shifting  ideas 
of  her  children  which  most  perplexed  her.  That 
they  should  change  was  a  natural  fulfilment  of 
the  ancient  law  of  growth.  Humbly  teachable, 
she,  too,  hoped  to  benefit  by  what  Washington 
offered.  The  bewildering,  even  terrifying  thing 
was  to  behold  Steve  change  without  herself 
keeping  step.  She  perceived  that  he,  ever  meet- 
ing the  larger  world,  must  have  been  changing 

[94] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

ever  since  the  turn  in  their  fortunes.  How  else 
could  it  have  come  about  that  they  now  had  so 
little  in  common? 

Cast  down  by  such  reflections,  she  was  over- 
joyed when,  one  afternoon  toward  the  end  of  the 
congressional  recess,  Steve  came  back  in  holiday 
mood  and  bade  her  be  ready  for  an  evening  at 
the  play. 

"It  seems  a  dog's  age  since  we  saw  a  show  to- 
gether," he  said,  "so  I  decided  to  do  it  in  style. 
Put  on  something  fancy.  I've  taken  a  box." 

Heartened  at  this  sign  of  awakened  considera- 
tion, Olive  looked  forward  to  the  outing  with 
the  fervid  anticipation  which  impish  fate  delights 
to  rebuff.  In  the  same  interval  Braisted  occu- 
pied himself  with  a  series  of  whisky-and-sodas, 
many  strong  cigars,  and  the  dictation  of  several 
belated  business  letters,  all  in  the  stuffy  little 
den  appointed  to  the  hotel  stenographer,  of  whom 
he  was  making  use  during  a  holiday  trip  of  Ben's 
to  Philadelphia.  The  upshot  of  these  labors 
by  night  was  a  captious  frame  of  mind  which 
nothing  pleased. 

Following  the  precepts  of  Beauchamp  Manor, 
his  wife  had  achieved  a  toilet  which,  if  not 
beautiful,  was  at  least  in  simple  good  taste; 
but  Braisted's  jaundiced  eye  saw  only  that  Olive 
was  no  sylph,  and  inspired  him  to  repeat  his 
advice  to  consult  Mrs.  Estabrook's  wonder- 
working dressmaker.  He  harped  so  long  on  this 
topic  that  it  brought  relief  to  have  him  switch 

195] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

at  last  to  the  shortcomings  of  the  laundry  which 
had  mishandled  his  linen  and  the  criminal 
blunders  of  the  tailor  who  last  pressed  his  even- 
ing clothes.  Dinner  he  marred  by  grumbling 
at  the  hotel  management  for  its  thrifty  retrench- 
ments and  by  a  running  fire  of  sarcasm  aimed 
at  the  luckless  black  who  by  some  chance  served 
them  in  their  usual  waiter's  stead.  Olive  half 
feared  to  see  the  flash  of  an  avenging  razor,  and 
only  drew  normal  breath  when  the  meal  was  over. 
She  diagnosed  his  case  accurately,  however,  and 
insisted  that  they  go  to  the  theater  afoot,  trust- 
ing that  a  walk  in  the  January  night  would  cool 
his  dudgeon.  She  was  not  a  bigot  regarding 
drink;  but  it  had  not  escaped  her  tolerant 
notice  that  Stephen  Braisted,  politician,  was  a 
thirstier  being  than  Stephen  Braisted,  man  of 
business;  and  the  knowledge  helped  to  swell  the 
growing  burden  of  her  unrest. 

With  a  beginning  so  ill-starred,  she  felt  but 
a  listless  interest  in  what  might  follow;  yet,  hop- 
ing nothing,  she  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  diverted. 
As  usual,  when  he  followed  his  own  bent,  Steve 
had  chosen  a  musical  comedy,  for  no  other  form 
of  theatrical  entertainment,  save  brisk  vaudeville 
perhaps,  could  keep  him  awake;  but  this  time  he 
had  pitched  on  an  exceptional  musical  comedy 
equipped  with  a  perceptible  plot,  and  with  a 
comedian  whose  sincerity  raised  his  art  to  the 
difficult  plane  between  laughter  and  tears,  which 
few  actors  understand  and  fewer  still  attain. 

[96] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

The  libretto  dealt  with  the  old  yet  ever  new 
theme  of  suddenly  acquired  riches;  and  no  in- 
opportune regiment  of  chorus-girls  or  lugged-in 
topical  song — the  plums  of  the  pudding  for 
Steve — could  wholly  shatter  for  Olive  the  beau- 
tiful human  illusion  of  this  one  man's  acting. 
His  half  comic,  half  pathetic  emotions  again  and 
again  matched  some  experience  of  her  own  till 
it  came  to  seem  that  he  must  by  some  wizardry 
have  read  her  very  thoughts. 

She  was  full  of  the  wonder  of  it  when,  as  the 
lights  went  up  after  the  first  act,  Steve  surprised 
her  by  leaning  across  the  rail  of  the  box  behind 
to  address  some  late-comers  who  had  taken  their 
places  in  the  darkness. 

"Wearing  gum  shoes,  Hoyt?"  he  demanded, 
jovially.  "I  didn't  know  we  had  neighbors  at 
all,  let  alone  you  folks.  When  did  you  blow 
into  town,  Estabrook?  And  you  back,  too, 
Mrs.  Estabrook?  What's  wrong  with  Old  Point, 
anyhow?" 

"Honeymooners,"  answered  the  lady,  wearily. 
"The  hotel  was  infested  with  them." 

"Well,"  prompted  Braisted,  "what  of  it?" 

"What  of  it!  Evidently  you  never  tried  to 
play  serious  bridge  with  a  bride  and  groom." 

She  leaned  past  him  to  address  some  civility 
to  Olive,  whereupon  Steve  tardily  bethought 
himself  to  present  the  Estabrooks'  companion 
to  his  wife. 

"Ollie,  this  is  my  friend,  Proctor  Hoyt,  of — " 

[97] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

He  hesitated,  laughingly.  **  Where  shall  I 
say?" 

"Oh,  make  it  the  United  States,"  put  in  Esta- 
brook.  "You  can't  tie  a  man  like  Hoyt  down 
to  a  section." 

"Or  to  a  single  country,"  contributed  his  wife. 
"He  is  a  citizen  of  the  world." 

The  young  man,  if  he  was  a  young  man, 
weathered  this  introduction  without  embarrass- 
ment. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mrs.  Braisted,  I'm  from 
Seattle,"  he  said,  drawing  his  chair  up  to  the 
dividing  rail.  "Will  you  let  me  tell  you  how 
proud  I  am  to  meet  the  originator  of  one  of  our 
most  famous  products?  Your  husband  has  given 
me  the  real  history  of  the  great  Braisted  in- 
dustry, you  see." 

"Anybody  could  think  of  a  recipe,"  Olive 
protested.  "It  was  building  up  the  business 
that  took  brains,  and  the  credit  of  that  belongs 
to  Steve." 

"Ah,  but  the  womanly  inspiration !"  He  made 
his  tone  intimate.  "I  can't  let  you  make  light 
of  that.  Who  can  gauge  its  power?  Not  that 
I  undervalue  Stephen  Braisted's  ability  for  or- 
ganization. To  me  it  seems  genius,  positive 
genius!  It  stamps  him  as  a  leader  of  men, 
proves  him  the  peer  of  the  great  captains  of 
industry." 

Shy  of  any  compliments  whatsoever,  Olive 
became  dumb  before  this  spouting  geyser  of 

[98] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

flattery;  but  Proctor  Hoyt  did  not  mind.  He 
could  talk  for  both.  When  Olive  perceived 
that  she  was  not  expected  to  say  anything  in 
reply,  she  let  her  mind  wander  from  the  magic 
names  of  Carnegie  and  Morgan  and  Rockefeller 
to  the  oracle  who,  with  such  superb  assurance, 
put  these  giants  in  their  place.  She  now  saw 
that  he  could  scarcely  be  as  young  as  he  had 
seemed  at  first.  Of  undoubted  good  looks,  his 
most  striking  feature  was  a  pair  of  black  eyes 
which  gave  great  animation  to  a  face  that  other- 
wise would  have  been  cold.  His  flashing  glance 
belonged  to  a  boyish  idealist;  his  lower  face  was 
that  of  a  man  without  illusions. 

Suddenly  he  brought  up  short  with  a  change 
of  tone  and  topic. 

"That's  a  remarkably  pretty  girl  down  there 
in  the  sixth  row  of  the  orchestra,"  he  was  say- 
ing. "She  is  smiling  up  here  as  if  she  knew 

you." 

Olive  followed  his  glance. 

"Why,  it's  my  Fern!"  she  cried.  "Look, 
Steve,  look!  There's  Fern,  and  Ben  with  her. 
What  does  it  mean?" 

Braisted  scowled  through  his  opera-glasses  at 
the  laughing  pair. 

"It  means  she's  back,  that's  all.  Why  didn't 
she  wire?" 

"She  wanted  to  surprise  us,  Steve." 

"Sweet  child!"  said  Mrs.  E^tabrook.  "But 
that  secretary  of  yours,  Mr.  Braisted,  is  alto- 

[99] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

gether  too  young  and  good-looking  for  a  chaperon. 
I'd  keep  an  eye  on  him  if  I  were  you." 

"I  shall,"  promised  Steve,  grimly. 

"Why  not  have  them  up  here  where  we  can 
all  keep  an  eye  on  them?"  suggested  Hoyt. 
"There's  plenty  of  room." 

Fern's  mother  felt  a  savage  desire  to  throttle 
both  these  meddlers,  and  the  immediate  darken- 
ing of  the  house  for  the  next  act  seemed  a  di- 
rect interposition  of  Providence.  She  could  no 
longer  lose  herself  in  the  play,  however.  Her 
thoughts  were  all  with  the  truants  down  there 
in  the  friendly  gloom.  She  must  shield  them 
somehow.  What  might  not  Steve  say  to  them 
in  his  present  mood? 

But  the  actual  meeting  proved  her  forebodings 
vain.  There  were  no  thunders  from  Steve.  He 
heard  with  a  sympathetic  smile  Fern's  account 
of  the  sudden  longing  for  the  society  of  her  family, 
which  had  sent  her  flying  to  Washington  by  the 
first  train.  He  listened  amiably  while  his  secre- 
tary explained  that  an  equally  sudden  impulse 
had  prompted  him  to  extend  his  outing  to  New 
York,  with  the  dramatic  sequel  of  a  call  at  the 
Blounts',  and  the  opportunity  to  share  Fern's 
homeward  journey.  No  slightest  hint  did  he 
betray  of  his  conviction  that  Ben  Halsey's  call 
and  Fern's  flight  were  cause  and  effect.  And, 
wonder  of  wonders,  he  even  by  word  of  mouth 
approved  of  their  coming  to  the  play  when  they 
found  the  Walden  deserted. 

[100] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

"For  it  gives  us  all  a  chance  for  a  jolly  little 
supper,"  he  added,  and,  tucking  Mrs.  Esta- 
brook's  arm  in  his,  headed  the  way  to  a  neigh- 
boring hotel. 

Olive's  relief  at  the  turn  of  affairs  was  alloyed 
with  a  nervous  dread  of  her  duties  as  hostess;  but 
Braisted  himself  took  charge  of  the  impromptu 
supper-party  with  an  ease  that  amazed  her. 
He  asked  Mrs.  Estabrook,  who  sat  beside  him, 
one  or  two  questions,  and,  after  a  knowing  dis- 
cussion of  cookery  and  vintages  with  the  head 
waiter,  sketched  out  a  meal  which,  in  variety, 
indigestibility,  wastefulness,  and  general  ex- 
pense, he  found  compared  more  than  well  with 
any  ordered  by  their  fellow-guests  among  the 
palms  and  tinted  lights. 

Meanwhile  the  self-possessed  Mr.  Hoyt  de- 
voted himself  to  a  select  audience  of  one.  Deftly 
blocked  from  Fern's  company  in  the  brief  walk 
from  the  theater,  Ben  found  himself  still  out- 
generaled in  the  restaurant.  Fern  might  as 
well  have  been  back  in  New  York  for  all  the 
pleasure  he  derived  from  her  society.  A  huge 
bowl  of  roses  and  Proctor  Hoyt  shut  him  most 
effectually  away.  Worse  yet,  Fern  seemed 
quite  content  with  the  arrangement.  She  was 
only  too  plainly  taken  with  this  new  friend  of 
her  father's,  who  put  such  eloquence  into  a  mere 
glance. 

Like  emotions  spoiled  another  appetite.  What 
Proctor  Hoyt  and  the  bowl  of  roses  did  for  poor 


THE   WOMAN   OP   IT 

Ben  Halsey,  the  bowl  of  roses  and  Ada  Esta- 
brook  did  for  Olive.  Could  not  Stephen  Brai- 
sted  realize  that  that  ogling  woman  was  making 
a  fool  of  him?  What  could  Estabrook  himself 
be  thinking?  Apparently  of  nothing  save  the 
business  in  hand.  He  ate  as  if  such  rich  foods 
seldom  came  his  way,  and  by  no  means  neglected 
the  champagne  which  Steve  provided  in  lavish 
abundance.  There  was  something  animal,  it 
struck  her,  in  his  intent,  silent  feeding.  How 
shiny  his  evening  coat  was  at  the  elbows!  She 
noticed  that  even  as  she  strained  her  ears  to  catch 
what  that  woman  was  saying  to  Steve. 

Mrs.  Estabrook  was  talking  of  her  car. 

"It's  the  latest  model,"  she  was  telling  him. 
"Of  course,  they  allowed  us  little  or  nothing  for 
our  old  one.  They're  such  brigands — these 
automobile  dealers!  But,  as  I  said  to  Dan,  it's 
poor  policy  here  in  Washington  to — "  Some 
half-hearted  small  talk  from  Ben  drowned  the 
rest  of  it. 

The  party  broke  up  at  last,  and  Olive  forgot 
everything  else  in  dismay  at  the  size  of  the  bill 
which  chanced  to  pass  beneath  her  eye.  The 
sharp  lessons  of  their  years  of  enforced  thrift 
were  graven  too  deep  for  her  to  see  anything 
but  criminal  waste  in  paying  such  an  amount 
for  an  after-theater  supper. 

"Forty  dollars  for  a  single  meal!"  she  ex- 
claimed, when  her  husband  came  finally  to  bed. 
"It's  a  sin,  Steve,  a  wicked  sin!" 

[102] 


Braisted,  exceeding  mellow  now,  threw  back 
his  head  and  laughed  boisterously. 

"That  wasn't  a  sin,  Ollie,"  he  explained. 
"It  was  an  investment." 

"I  can't  see  it  as  a  joke." 

"Who  asks  you  to?  Why,  that  man  Hoyt 
will  be  worth  his  weight  in  gold  to  me."  For 
a  moment  he  seemed  on  the  point  of  confiding 
something  momentous,  but  the  impulse  died 
away  in  a  chuckle.  "Did  you  notice  how  Fern 
took  to  him?"  he  demanded.  "I  wanted  to 
boot  Halsey  out  of  the  theater  when  I  first 
spotted  him  to-night;  but  a  minute  after  I  knew 
it  was  all  right.  Little  Fern  is  all  right,  too," 
he  added,  with  vinous  unction.  "She  isn't 
going  to  fumble  her  hand." 


CHAPTER  IX 

TO  these  cryptic  utterances  Olive  at  the  time 
paid  slight  heed.  A  personal  problem  ab- 
sorbed her.  She  was  trying  to  vivisect  Mrs. 
Estabrook.  The  theater-party  had  given  break- 
neck speed  to  the  train  of  thought  set  carelessly 
in  motion  by  Steve  after  the  White  House  call. 
It  was  true,  as  her  husband  had  remarked,  that 
she  and  Ada  Estabrook  would  tip  the  scales  at 
about  the  same  unmentionable  figure.  It  was 
also  true,  though  Steve  said  nothing  about  it, 
that  her  stock  of  good  looks  would  stand  com- 
parison with  the  supply  bestowed  by  Nature  on 
this  matron  whom  he  so  obviously  admired.  By 
what  magic  could  she,  the  lawful  object  of  his 
adoration,  also  become  a  thing  of  shapely  grace? 
She  was  convinced  that  the  difference  between 
them  was  due  to  art,  and  not  the  art  of  the 
tailor  merely,  and  she  engaged  the  lady  in  many 
a  distasteful  conversation  in  the  hope  of  filching 
some  scrap  of  the  precious  lore.  Indeed,  she 
even  underwent  the  martyrdom  of  learning 
bridge  as  a  means  to  this  end,  for  Mrs.  Estabrook 
was  a  devotee  of  the  game;  but  while  she  added 
materially  to  her  teacher's  phi-money,  she  gained 

[104] 


none  of  the  esoteric  wisdom  she  sought,  and  in 
desperation  came  finally  to  a  bold  resolve. 
Rumor  said  that  Ada  Estabrook  patronized  a 
beauty-doctor.  Why  should  not  Olive  Braisted 
employ  one  of  these  wizards  of  modern  science? 
But  rumor,  like  Mrs.  Estabrook,  failed  to  specify 
which  particular  wizard  she  favored,  and  Olive 
had  to  choose  at  haphazard.  There  was  a  strong 
family  likeness  in  the  claims  and  testimonials 
of  the  whole  profession;  but,  not  caring  to  dis- 
cuss the  subject  with  a  man,  she  dismissed  the 
masculine  advertisements  at  once,  and  after  a 
survey  of  the  still  extensive  field,  pitched  upon 
a  certain  Madam  Sheba  because  of  the  engaging 
frankness  of  her  published  face. 

She  located  the  consulting-rooms  of  this  per- 
sonage some  days  before  she  could  screw  her 
courage  to  the  point  of  entering.  Situated  on 
one  of  the  chief  shopping  streets,  the  staircase 
faced  the  main  entrance  of  a  department  store, 
from  which  there  would  surely  saunter  some  one 
she  knew  whenever  she  neared  the  tell-tale 
sign  and  pointing  finger  that  guided  seekers  of 
perpetual  youth  to  the  miracle-working  pres- 
ence. One  wet,  gusty  morning,  however,  when 
the  few  passers-by  were  concerned  only  with 
their  umbrellas,  she  found  the  coast  clear,  and, 
whipping  into  the  narrow  doorway,  hurried  up 
the  three  steep  flights  which,  for  hygienic  rea- 
sons, perhaps,  Madam  Sheba  inflicted  on  her 
patrons,  and  arrived  panting  before  the  portal. 

8  [105] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

Entering  a  reception-room  set  about  with 
sculptural  examples  of  ideal  feminine  beauty, 
she  was  greeted  by  a  young  woman  quite  as 
statuesque  as  the  surrounding  casts,  and  further 
endowed  with  a  complexion  of  striking  color 
and  texture. 

"I  came  to  see  Madam  Sheba,  if  she's  not 
engaged,"  Olive  announced. 

The  goddess  looked  politely  doubtful. 

"You  haven't  an  appointment,  then?"  she 
asked. 

"Why,  no.  Coming  so  early  in  the  day,  I 
didn't  expect  it  would  matter.  I  do  hope  I 
won't  have  to  go  away  without  seeing  her.  It 
wasn't  easy  for  me  to  come." 

"We  are  always  busy,"  stated  the  attendant, 
with  a  slight  air  of  reproof;  "but  if  you  care  to 
wait,  I'll  see  what  can  be  done." 

She  rustled  into  majestic  retirement  behind 
heavy  portieres,  and  after  some  minutes,  pre- 
sumably devoted  to  pleading  Olive's  cause, 
reappeared  with  a  victorious  smile  and  said 
that  inasmuch  as  a  lady  who  lived  on  Dupont 
Circle  had  just  phoned  she  could  not  keep  her 
appointment,  a  vacant  half-hour  would  pres- 
ently be  available. 

"Which  is  very  lucky,"  she  added.  "Usually 
there  isn't  an  opening." 

"Is  anybody  having  a  consultation  now?" 
asked  Olive,  suddenly  panic-stricken  at  the 
thought  that  somebody  she  knew,  perhaps  Mrs. 

[106] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

iiEstabrook  herself,  might  pop  out  upon  her  from 
the  inner  mysteries. 

"No,"  said  the  goddess,  confidentially,  as  a 
rattle  of  earthenware  issued  from  beyond.  "It's 
an  important  chemical  experiment  that's  being 
tried  in  the  laboratory." 

Olive  wondered  whether  the  chemical  experi- 
ment had  not  something  to  do  with  a  belated 
breakfast.  There  was  a  faint  odor  which  might 
be  coffee  in  the  air,  and  she  noticed  a  crumb  or 
two  on  the  attendant's  blouse  that  she  thought 
had  not  been  there  before  her  disappearance; 
but,  reflecting  that  she  had  undoubtedly  arrived 
betimes  and  that  even  wizards  and  beauties 
must  eat,  she  waited  her  turn  in  patience.  This 
interval  the  goddess  enlivened  with  friendly  talk 
upon  the  Sheba  system  of  treatment. 

"Two  years  ago,"  she  confessed,  "I  was  as 
stout  as  you  are." 

"You  don't  tell  me!" 

"Every  bit.  And  I  had  the  same  shortness 
of  breath  I  noticed  in  you  as  you  came  in.  I 
expected  to  drop  of  apoplexy  any  minute. 
You've  probably  had  that  feeling,  too?" 

"I  do  get  afraid  sometimes  when  I'm  in  a 
crowd.1  But  it's  different  with  a  girl  like 
you." 

The  goddess  laughed  merrily. 

"How  old  do  you  think  I  am?"  she  asked. 

The  caller  gave  her  a  careful  scrutiny,  which 
she  bore  with  composure. 

1107] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Twenty-five,  perhaps,"  she  ventured.  % 

"That's  the  average  guess.  What  would  you 
say  if  I  told  you  that  I'll  never  see  thirty-eight 
again?" 

Olive  stared,  and  then  smiled. 

"It  wouldn't  be  polite." 

The  marvel  laughed  again. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  she  assured.  "Nobody 
believes  me.  Nobody  will  believe,  either,  that 
I  ever  had  a  wrinkle.  If  I  swore  on  a  stack  of 
Bibles,  it  would  make  no  difference.  People  have 
got  in  the  way  of  looking  for  fraud  in  everything, 
so  I  don't  bother  to  argue.  I  only  say,  if  you're 
curious,  try  the  Sheba  system  as  I  did." 

At  this  juncture  a  bell  tinkled,  and  the  re- 
juvenated goddess,  lifting  the  curtain,  ushered 
Olive  down  a  dusky  passage  to  the  consulting- 
room,  a  chamber  of  such  scientific  simplicity 
that,  aside  from  a  desk  and  chairs,  its  furnish- 
ings consisted  merely  of  jars  and  bottles  mount- 
ing shelf  on  shelf  to  the  very  ceiling.  The 
breakfast-time  odor  was  here  so  unmistakable 
that  before  taking  her  departure  the  attendant 
humorously  alluded  to  it. 

"Whatever  your  nose  tells  you,  don't  think 
the  laboratory  beyond  is  a  kitchen,"  she  said. 
"Our  chemist  is  experimenting  with  the  food 
values  of  coffee." 

From  this  inmost  retreat,  which  did  look  un- 
commonly like  a  kitchen  to  the  visitor  whose 
eyes  happened  to  be  fixed  on  the  opening  door, 

[108] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

there  now  walked  a  large,  black-haired  man 
whom  she  took  for  the  chemist  till  he  bade  her 
good  morning  and  seated  himself  at  the  desk. 

"But  I  wanted  to  see  Madam  Sheba,"  she 
explained. 

"Madam  Sheba  is  dead,"  replied  the  large  man, 
solemnly,  "but  her  system  fortunately  lives.  I 
am  her  nephew  and  successor." 

His  sad  news  cut  Olive  adrift. 

"I  fully  expected  to  talk  to  a  woman,"  she 
wavered,  uncertain  whether  to  retreat  or  stand 
fast. 

The  late  Madam  Sheba's  nephew  lifted  a  long, 
tobacco-stained  forefinger  and  fixed  her  va- 
grant attention. 

"Who,"  he  asked,  with  stern  gravity,  "have 
been  the  world's  greatest  physicians?  Men! 
Who  have  been  the  world's  greatest  scientists? 
Men!  Even  Madam  Sheba — I  say  it  with  all 
respect — could  not  have  perfected  her  admirable 
system  without  my  help.  It  was  merely  a 
theory,  a  feminine  intuition,  till  I  brought  my 
logical  masculine  faculties  to  bear  upon  it.  But 
that  is  beside  the  point.  What  troubles  you  is 
the  dread  of  confiding  your  worries  to  one  who, 
not  being  a  woman,  may  not  completely  sym- 
pathize. Well,  madam,  you  need  not  say  a 
word.  I  can  diagnose  your  case  without  it.  In 
a  nutshell,  you  are  too  fat." 

"It's  not  hard  to  see  that." 

"No;    not  hard  to  see,  but  hard  to  remedy. 

[109] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

To  break  down  the  superfluous  tissue  without 
breaking  down  your  constitution  as  well — that 
is  another  matter.  Now  let  me  point  out  one 
or  two  things  which  have  not  occurred  to  you. 
Take  this  glass,"  he  directed,  handing  her  a 
large  magnifying-mirror.  "Are  you  satisfied 
with  what  you  see?" 

"My  stars,  no!"  said  Olive,  overcome  by 
her  imperfections  so  relentlessly  exposed. 

"Of  course  not.  Notice  your  eyes,  for  ex- 
ample. Wouldn't  you  rather  have  them  bright 
and  limpid?  Our  Arethusa  Eye  Drops  will  do 
it.  And  now  observe  your  complexion." 

"I  have.  It  looks  as  if  I  were  coming  down 
with  scarlet  fever." 

"Exactly.  What  you  really  need  is  to  be 
skinned." 

"Skinned!"  she  shuddered. 

"It  amounts  to  that.  You  seclude  yourself 
for  a  time,  we  painlessly  remove  the  imperfect 
outer  cuticle  and  you  re-enter  the  world  with 
the  rose-leaf  bloom  of  an  infant." 

"I  wouldn't  hear  to  it." 

The  scientist  debated  with  himself  for  an  instant. 

"Our  Venus  Toilet  Mask  would,  of  course,  be 
of  great  service  to  you,"  he  suggested.  "  I  should 
strongly  advise  your  using  the  Juno  Chin  Strap 
at  the  same  time." 

Olive  vetoed  this  alternative  with  equal 
promptness.  She  did  not  propose  to  make  her- 
self a  nightly  laughing-stock  for  Steve. 

[110] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"I  hoped  you  would  help  me  without  such 
contrivances,"  she  continued.  "Your  circular 
says  as  much,  and  that  anybody  can  use  the 
system  in  their  own  home." 

"So  you  can.  But  it  will  take  time  which  I 
thought  you  might  not  be  able  to  spare  from 
your  social  duties.  I  will  enroll  you  for  the  home 
course,  and  give  you  the  first  instructions.  The 
entrance  fee  is  twenty-five  dollars,  payable  in 
advance." 

This  preliminary  complied  with,  she  settled 
herself  to  drink  in  the  basic  principles  of  Madam 
Sheba's  renowned  discovery.  Sifting  the  swift 
and  often  indistinct  whirl  of  words  of  its  ex- 
ponent, this  seemed  chiefly  to  consist  in  the 
liberal  use  of  a  preparation  styled  Psyche  Skin 
Food,  accompanied  by  herculean  labors  of  ex- 
ercise and  massage.  She  was  relieved  to  find 
that  starvation  was  unnecessary.  The  man  ex- 
plained that  the  scheme  was  above  all  things 
rational,  and  for  the  present  bade  her  follow  her 
usual  diet.  For  a  startled  moment  she  also 
understood  him  to  urge  her  to  chew  sweetmeats 
between  meals;  but  on  inquiry  it  developed  that 
he  had  not  said  "chew"  but  "eschew."  She 
had  now  to  rehearse  for  her  instructor  the  ex- 
ercises which  were  to  occupy  her  leisure  till  her 
return  a  week  later — a  feat  made  doubly  diffi- 
cult by  her  street  dress  and  the  tropical  tem- 
perature of  the  scientist's  establishment.  Thus 

handicapped,  she  found  his  so-called  stationary 
[in] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

running  particularly  laborious.  Done  at  length, 
however,  she  purchased  three  of  the  ridiculously 
small  but  amazingly  costly  jars  of  skin-food 
and  a  box  of  an  indispensable  soap  bearing  the 
name  of  Diana.  Their  enthusiastic  inventor 
still  urged  the  toilet-mask  and  the  chin-strap; 
but  resisting  their  blandishments,  Olive  took  her 
departure  with  the  feeling  that  her  rejuvenation 
was  as  good  as  accomplished. 

This  optimism  lasted  for  five  memorable  days, 
during  which,  thanks  to  the  joint  influence  of 
Diana  Soap,  Psyche  Skin  Food,  and  her  own 
unclassical  yet  vigorous  massage,  Olive's  coun- 
tenance took  on  a  glow  of  such  fiery  intensity 
as  made  her  question  whether  after  all  she 
had  done  wisely  in  rejecting  the  Venus  Toilet 
Mask  and  its  attendant  chin -strap  dedicated 
to  Juno.  Certainly  they  could  not  have  drawn 
more  unflattering  comment  from  Steve,  who, 
in  comical  ignorance,  solemnly  advised  her  to 
consult  a  specialist.  But  if  her  face  shone 
too  ruddily,  and  every  muscle  ached,  there 
was  compensation  in  the  sharpened  appetite 
she  brought  to  table.  The  meals  seemed  days 
apart. 

Doubt  first  raised  its  head  on  the  afternoon 
of  the  fifth  day,  when  the  waistband  of  a  gown 
she  had  worn  the  previous  week  in  comfort  now 
failed  to  hook  at  all. 

"But  something  must  be  caught,  Milly,"  she 
.told  the  colored  maid,  whom  in  Steve's  absence 

[112] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

she  usually  impressed  into  this  service.  "Try 
again  while  I  hold  my  breath." 

Milly  battled  a  minute  or  two  longer. 

"No'm,  Mis'  Braisted,"  she  declared,  "I  jes' 
cayn't  do  it  without  bustin'  either  you  or  the 
dress.  You  has  suttinly  took  on  flesh." 

Olive  leaned  feebly  against  her  dressing- 
table. 

"Milly!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  don't  think 
that?"  ' 

"Yas'm." 

"But  I  ought  to  be  thinner." 

"Yas'm,  you'd  ought,"  agreed  the  maid. 
"On'y  yesterday  I  heard  a  lady  say  so." 

"Who?" 

"It  was  Mis'  Estabrook." 

Olive  sank  dejectedly  into  a  chair. 

"WThat  under  the  canopy  shall  I  do?"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"If  you're  axing  me,  I'd  say  see  one  of  them 
beauty-doctors." 

She  searched  the  black  face  sharply,  but  no 
sarcasm  was  apparent.  Milly  was  all  sympathy 
and  seriousness. 

"Do  you  think  they  amount  to  shucks?"  she 
asked,  skeptically. 

"Oh,  yas'm.  There  was  a  lady  here  las' 
winter — Mis'  Finch  her  name  was — who  could 
have  toF  you." 

"Was  she  stout?" 

"Powerful.     An*  most  of  it  jes'  blubber,  for 

[113] 


THE   WOMAN   OF   IT 

she  wa'n't  tall.     She  was  more  middlin',  I  should 
say,  like  you.'* 

Her  listener  became  engrossed. 

"And  she  got  thin?" 

"Not  skinny,  so  to  speak,  but  slim  to  what 
she  was  befo'  she  went  to  Madam  Sheba's." 

"She  went  there!" 

"Yes'm.  It's  on'y  a  name,  though.  The 
doctor's  a  man." 

"You  are  sure  of  the  place?" 

"Oh,  yas'm.  I  know,  'cause  she  toP  me  about 
it.  She'd  gen'rally  do  her  'nasties  while  I  was 
tidyin'  the  room." 

"What  were  they  like,  her  gymnastics?" 

Milly  demonstrated. 

"Wall,"  she  said,  "I  'member  one  'nastic 
what  looked  like  runnin',  on'y  she  didn't  get 
nowhere.  It  always  made  me  laff.  Then  she'd 
put  her  hands  against  the  do'  an'  dip  down 
between  'em  till  her  hayd  would  touch — that 
was  for  the  roll  of  fat  on  her  shoulders.  An', 
oh  yes,  she  got  so  she  could  touch  her  toes  an' 
never  bend  her  knees,  which  was  funny,  too, 
when  she  done  it.  I  cayn't  reckerlect  all  she 
done  that-away;  but  when  she  was  through  the 
stand-up  'nasties  she'd  set  down  to  her  dresser 
an'  pinch  an'  pat  an'  smooth  her  face  by  the 
hour.  She  sayd  that  was  for  her  double  chin 
an'  the  crow's-feet." 

The  description  rang  true.  Olive's  muscles 
ached  in  sympathy. 

[1141 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"Did  it  make  her  face  red?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  yas'm;  for  a  long  spell,  but  bimeby  that 
went  off  with  the  fat." 

There  was  the  vital  difference.  The  ponder- 
ous unknown  had  lost  weight.  The  system 
stood  vindicated  by  its  results.  Why  had  not 
she,  too,  profited  by  it?  As  the  maid  helped  her 
into  a  looser  dress,  however,  Milly  added  a  bit 
of  gossip  which  sapped  her  faith  in  the  nephew 
and  successor  of  the  late  Madam  Sheba. 

"Mis'  Finch  sayd  she  was  shore  the  man  was 
a  quack,"  said  the  girl.  "This  doctor,  he's  got 
a  right  smart  an'  handsome  woman  in  his  office 
to  tend  do'  an'  be  sociable-like  to  callers.  An' 
bimeby,  while  they's  settin'  there  a-waitin',  she 
up  an'  tells  'em  if  they  want  to  see  what  Madam 
Sheba  kin  do,  why  jes'  look  close  at  her.  If 
they's  slim,  she  lets  on  how  she  got  plump.  If 
they's  fat,  she  tells  'em  how  Madam  Sheba  made 
her  thin.  But  what  tickle  Mis'  Finch  mos', 
that  girl  even  sayd  she  is  nigh  forty  an'  used  to 
have  wrinkles  something  dreadful.  Pshaw,  Mis' 
Braisted,  she's  jes'  a  Baltimo'  huzzy  what  he 
brung  over  here  to  fool  folks!  A  lady  frien'  of 
Mis'  Finch  reckernize  her  an*  sayd  she  cayn't 
be  a  day  over  twenty -fo'  if  she's  that." 

Olive  plumbed  a  new  depth  of  human  de- 
pravity. 

"Yet  Mrs.  Finch  kept  on  going  there?"  she 
exclaimed. 

"Yas'm.  She  on'y  laffed  an*  sayd  that, 
[us] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

quack  or  no  quack,  she  was  losin'  five  pounds  a 
week,  an'  that  was  enough  for  her." 

It  might  have  been  enough  for  Olive,  but  for 
the  crushing  testimony  of  her  waistband.  Her 
dream  of  lissome  elegance  died  hard,  however. 
She  even  sat  herself  down  once  more  to  the 
pinching,  patting,  and  smoothing  process  de- 
scribed by  Milly;  but  at  the  first  movement  a 
sharp  ache,  leaping  from  finger-tips  to  shoulders 
and  from  shoulders  to  back,  stabbed  her  flagging 
resolution  to  death. 

Now  it  was,  when  there  seemed  nothing  for  it 
but  to  resign  herself  to  shapelessness  for  life, 
that  a  chance  remark  of  Mrs.  Tully's  solved  the 
riddle. 

"For  myself,"  stated  the  old  lady,  firmly,  as 
Mrs.  Estabrook  in  full  evening  effulgence  passed 
by,  "for  myself,  I  prefer  a  corset  that  leaves 
my  vital  organs  where  Nature  intended  them 
to  be.  You  see — " 

But  thereupon  a  mere  man  drifted  within  ear- 
shot, and  the  explanation  ended  in  a  whisper. 


CHAPTER  X 

THAT  man  chanced  to  be  Proctor  Hoyt, 
who,  since  the  holidays,  had  formed  the 
habit  of  spending  some  part  of  his  evenings  at 
the  Walden.  He  passed  Olive's  corner  with  a 
bow  and  made  for  Mrs.  Estabrook.  This  also 
was  something  of  a  habit  and  might  have  caused 
comment  but  for  the  fact  that,  save  one,  all  the 
men  in  the  Walden  gravitated  in  the  same 
direction.  The  exception  was  Mrs.  Estabrook's 
husband. 

Hoyt  was  popular.  He  had  a  taking  way,  an 
infectious  laugh,  and  the  useful  social  asset  of 
a  fine  baritone  voice;  and,  whether  he  dropped 
into  the  subterranean  den  where  the  bar  of  this 
family  hotel  was  concealed  or  the  feminized 
lobby,  there  was  always  some  one  to  make  him 
welcome.  He  was  often  Braisted's  guest  at 
dinner;  but  Olive  noticed  that  in  public  they  let 
fall  no  sign  that  they  were  more  than  friends. 
Of  what  they  said  to  each  other  in  private  she 
had  no  conception.  The  tremendous  secret  was 
a  secret  still.  The  new-comer  passed  as  a  pro- 
moter; but  no  one  in  the  Walden  knew  the  pre- 
cise nature  of  his  business.  A  man  from  Seattle 
might  promote  anything. 

[117] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

But  for  an  aftermath  of  the  beauty-parlor 
episode,  she  would  have  accepted  Steve's  esti- 
mate of  Proctor  Hoyt  and  put  their  mysterious 
business  out  of  mind  till  he  should  see  fit  to 
enlighten  her.  It  happened,  however,  that  it 
was  no  easy  matter  to  drop  Madam  Sheba's 
acquaintance.  At  first  suave  letters  on  mauve 
paper  reminded  her  that  she  had  failed  to  call 
for  further  instructions.  Disregarding  these, 
she  received  a  curt  notification  that  whether  she 
continued  the  treatment  or  not  she  would  be 
held  responsible  for  the  price  of  the  full  course. 
If  prompt  payment  were  not  made,  the  account 
would  be  placed  in  the  hands  of — but  Olive, 
who  had  learned  the  formula  by  heart  in  the 
old  days,  left  the  rest  unread.  There  was  noth- 
ing for  it  but  to  pay,  and  she  determined  to  pay 
in  person,  and  at  the  same  time  give  either 
Madam  Sheba's  nephew  or  the  brazen  decoy 
of  the  outer  office  a  piece  of  her  mind. 

She  was  robbed  of  this  latter  satisfaction,  how- 
ever. A  small  colored  boy  guarded  the  inner 
mysteries  this  time,  and  after  several  journeys 
to  and  fro  brought  Olive  her  final  receipt  from 
the  invisible  specialist.  It  was  a  long  wait,  and 
to  beguile  it  she  walked  to  a  window  and  glanced 
idly  out  into  the  court  on  which  it  gave.  The 
rear  of  the  building  opposite  was  commonplace. 
Through  one  window  she  saw  a  fat  man  dictat- 
ing to  his  stenographer.  Through  another  she 
glimpsed  a  dressmaking  establishment  with  a 

1118] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

group  of  black-garbed  sales-girls  flattering  a 
customer.  In  a  third  a  white-jacketed  dentist 
was  popping  roll  after  roll  of  cotton  into  an  un- 
willing mouth.  Then  she  came  upon  something 
less  humdrum:  a  fair-haired  manicurist  of  strik- 
ing good  looks  was  plying  her  arts,  professional 
and  otherwise,  upon  a  masculine  client.  The 
man's  face  was  hidden  by  a  cheap  lace  curtain; 
but  his  hands  showed,  and,  like  the  woman's, 
were  eloquent.  It  was  all  as  graphic  as  a  moving 
picture,  and  Olive  watched  for  the  denouement 
as  if  she  were  in  a  theater.  Finally  one  of  the 
masculine  arms  made  a  bold,  possessive  sweep, 
and  the  blond  head,  with  a  facility  that  sug- 
gested practice,  nestled  into  the  hollow  of  the 
sturdy  shoulder  that  now  came  abruptly  into 
the  scene.  At  this  pass  Olive  remembered  that 
this  was  not  a  public  performance;  but  before 
she  could  turn  away  her  eyes  the  male  actor  in 
the  pantomime  identified  himself  unmistakably 
as  Proctor  Hoyt. 

She  kept  what  she  had  seen  to  herself.  Steve 
would  merely  laugh  and  tell  her  that  Hoyt's 
love  affairs  were  his  own  business.  So  they 
were,  for  that  matter;  but  she  felt  that  he  would 
bear  watching  and  sharpened  her  vision  accord- 
ingly. 

Meanwhile  the  season,  the  prime  events  of 
which  were  admired  rather  than  shared  by  the 
Walden  coterie,  wheeled  its  gay  cycle  toward 
Lent,  and  the  great  Presidential  receptions,  which 

[119] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

the  Walden  by  right  official  or  unofficial  hook  or 
crook  usually  did  attend,  passed  into  social  his- 
tory. To  the  surprise  of  her  friends,  Olive  did 
not  present  herself  at  the  White  House. 

"But  you  don't  know  what  you  miss,"  re- 
monstrated Mrs.  Tully.  "First  and  last,  I've 
been  to  the  White  House  in  all  kinds  of  ways, 
from  luncheons  and  dinners  to  musicales  and 
egg-rollings;  but  for  downright  enjoyment  give 
me  one  of  the  popular  receptions.  Each  of  the 
four  has  its  special  points;  but  I  think  I  prefer 
the  congressional  night,  when  the  homespun 
people,  of  whom  I  am  one,  turn  out  in  largest 
number.  I  refuse  all  short  cuts.  I  wouldn't 
miss  a  step  of  the  long  march  up  through  the 
basement  to  the  front  corridor,  where  the  band 
plays,  and  so  round  by  the  various  rooms  to  the 
last  little  door  where  they  pop  you  past  the 
President  as  if  you  had  been  blown  out  of  a  pea- 
shooter. If  they  ever  go,  how  the  embassy  critics 
must  hug  themselves!  Democracy  making  be- 
lieve it's  at  court  is  America's  most  diverting 
sight." 

Olive  always  found  some  excuse  for  stay- 
ing away,  however.  The  memory  of  her  early 
blunder  was  too  bitter  to  admit  of  a  return, 
even  though  she  went  with  a  multitude.  Fern 
not  only  took  her  place  for  the  particular  spec- 
tacle which  rejoiced  the  satiric  Mrs.  Tully,  but 
with  a'privileged  handful  from  Beauchamp  Manor 
attended  one  of  the  later  functions  where  uni- 

[120] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

forms  were  more  frequent  and  the  throng,  as 
she  said  to  Olive,  was  less  promiscuous. 

"But  Miss  Abercrombie  doesn't  think  highly 
of  such  affairs,"  she  added.  "She  doesn't  care 
to  know  many  politicians.  Her  friends  are 
mainly  old  Washingtonians,  the  set  they  call 
the  Cave  Dwellers,  who  are  something  like  the 
real  Knickerbockers  in  New  York.  Excepting  a 
few  families,  they're  not  very  well  off;  but  they 
think  they're  the  salt  of  the  earth.  Yet  Philippa 
Blount  says  that  the  diplomatic  crowd  laugh  at 
them  as  they  do  at  the  rest  of  us." 

Olive  recalled  Mrs.  Tully's  allusion  to  these 
superior  observers. 

"What  business  have  they  to  poke  fun  at  us?" 
she  demanded.  "I  don't  call  that  diplomatic." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Fern,  vaguely.  "I 
presume  we  seem  different  and  queer.  I  should 
like  to  know  some  of  them  well  enough  to  find 
out." 

"I  shouldn't,"  her  mother  retorted.  "I  don't 
want  to  know  anybody  who  thinks  my  country 
is  a  joke." 

Fern  smiled  at  her  warmth. 

"What  if  it  is  a  joke?" 

Olive  regarded  her  with  stern  reproof. 

"If  you're  learning  such  things  at  Beauchamp 
Manor,"  she  rebuked,  sharply,  "I  think  it's 
high  time  we  took  you  out." 

Fern  promptly  changed  front. 

"I  only  said  'if,'"  she  protested. 

9  [121] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

Olive  pursued  the  topic  no  further;  but  it 
made  her  thoughtful  as  she  drove  homeward, 
and  remained  a  thorn  in  her  natural  optimism 
for  many  days.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her 
that  some  critics  might  look  with  contempt  on 
America.  The  text-books  of  her  simple  schooling 
and  Independence  Day  oratory  had  entrenched 
her  in  the  belief  that  this  was  in  all  things  the 
land  of  lands,  the  most  favored  nation,  which 
every  other  nation  held  in  awe.  Something  was 
always  being  exposed  in  the  newspapers,  to  be 
sure;  but  she  had  looked  upon  these  noisy  puri- 
fications as  symptoms  of  general  good  health 
rather  than  of  wide-spread  depravity.  Were  we 
in  sober  truth  a  by -word  among  the  peoples  of 
the  earth? 

Oddly  enough,  it  was  Ada  Estabrook's  hus- 
band who  restored  her  faith  in  the  greatness  of 
the  republic.  Of  the  real  personality  of  this 
man  Olive  had  learned  little.  She  knew,  of 
course,  that  he  had  failed  of  re-election,  and 
had  heard  the  common  report  that  during  his 
political  activities  his  law  practice  had  dwindled 
to  the  vanishing-point.  In  the  slang  of  the  day 
quoted  by  Mrs.  Tully,  he  was  a  "lame  duck," 
and  the  reason  of  it,  phrased  in  the  same  strange 
language  of  current  politics,  appeared  to  be  that, 
while  his  district  had  become  "insurgent,"  he 
had  unluckily  remained  "stand-pat." 

So  quiet,  even  so  colorless  a  figure  was  he  in 
the  life  of  the  hotel  that  Olive  was  astonished 
[122] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

to  find  him  among  the  Representatives  of  spell- 
binding repute,  who  made  brief  addresses  in  the 
lobby  the  night  of  Washington's  Birthday.  Yet 
he  was  the  one  man  who  struck  a  note  of  sin- 
cerity. Unlike  the  others,  he  did  not  wave  the 
flag,  he  told  no  humorous  stories.  Perhaps  the 
fact  that  March  fourth  would  end  his  con- 
gressional career  sobered  him.  He  was  as  seri- 
ous as  a  prophet,  and,  like  a  prophet,  voiced  old 
and  often  forgotten  truths.  He  preached  the 
doctrine  that  this  democracy  is  real;  that,  since 
it  is  real,  the  common  no  less  than  the  fine,  the 
ignorant  as  well  as  the  wise,  must  find  expression; 
and  that  humanity  should  rejoice  because  of  it. 
Art  there  unquestionably  was  in  his  oratory; 
but  transcending  art  there  throbbed  a  dynamic 
faith  in  the  national  destiny  which  stirred  his 
speech-hardened  audience  to  the  heart. 

"And  to  think  that  such  a  man  is  wasted  on 
Ada  Estabrook!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tully,  wiping 
her  eyes.  "It's  a  crime  deserving  capital  pun- 
ishment; and  just  at  this  moment  I  think  I 
could  execute  her  myself." 

Olive  had  not  exchanged  a  dozen  words  with 
Estabrook  since  the  night  of  the  theater-party; 
but  now,  while  his  message  still  moved  her,  she 
told  him  that  he  had  made  her  ashamed  of  her 
backsliding. 

"But  perhaps  Washington  isn't  just  the  place 
to  make  us  feel  patriotic,"  she  added. 

"You're  right,"  he  agreed.     "It  isn't  the  place 

[123] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

yet.  It's  as  unfinished  ethically  as  it  is  archi- 
tecturally. The  fine  and  the  base  rub  shoulders 
just  as  the  splendid  new  buildings  neighbor  the 
hovels.  But  we'll  be  proud  of  it  all  some  day, 
never  fear." 

Each  saw  the  other  from  a  new  viewpoint 
that  night,  and  a  quiet  friendship  sprang  up 
between  them,  for,  when  the  old  Congress  died 
and  the  new  came  together  in  special  session, 
Estabrook  secured  a  berth  of  some  sort  in  the 
Land  Office.  He  was  a  shrewd  judge  of  men — 
so  shrewd  that  she  marveled  how  he  could  have 
so  blundered  with  women  when  it  came  to  pick- 
ing a  wife.  She  wanted  very  much  to  know 
what  he  thought  of  Proctor  Hoyt,  who  had 
usurped  her  place  in  Steve's  confidence;  but 
Estabrook  seemed  shy  of  the  subject.  She 
had  supposed  him  a  warm  friend  of  Hoyt's 
when  she  saw  them  together  at  the  theater, 
but  latterly  they  were  never  in  each  other's 
company.  Could  it  be  that  Estabrook  resented 
Hoyt's  attentions  to  his  wife?  Surely  not.  If 
he  took  offense  on  that  score  the  quarrel  would 
extend  to  the  whole  male  population,  blacks 
excepted,  sheltered  by  the  Walden  roof.  Even 
Steve  would  be  in  the  ranks  of  the  enemy! 
Whereupon  the  impish  thought  struck  her  that 
she  had  not  seen  her  husband  and  Estabrook 
together  these  many  days.  Why  was  it?  Why? 
Then  she  thrust  the  wretched  doubt  from  her. 
What  was  there  about  this  place  that  put  such 

[124] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

notions  in  her  head?  She  had  never  been  pos- 
sessed by  demons  like  these  in  Tuscarora. 

Her  mind  often  went  back  to  Tuscarora  as 
the  spring  advanced,  and  her  favorite  day-dream 
had  for  background  the  spotless  kitchen  of  her 
new  house,  where  she  would  in  mouth-watering 
fancy  evolve  tin  on  tin  of  the  particular  soda- 
biscuits  for  which,  all  Washington's  fleshpots 
notwithstanding,  she  now  sighed  in  vain.  Those 
simple  joys  of  the  past!  To  cook  some  beloved 
dish  with  her  own  hands,  to  potter  in  the  mold 
of  a  new-made  garden,  to  saunter  down  a 
country  lane  when  the  orchards  were  in  bloom, 
to  talk  with  her  children  at  twilight — these  and 
like  fancies  lured  with  a  poetry  and  sweetness 
never  quite  realized  in  actual  life.  The  fact 
that  only  one  of  these  dreams  could  come  true 
in  the  near  future  raised  her  anticipation  of  the 
Easter  holidays  to  an  extravagant  pitch.  What- 
ever else  lacked,  she  should  again  enjoy  the 
dear  companionship  of  the  children. 

Fern  figured  oftenest  in  these  thoughts.  S.  J. 
claimed  an  equal  share  of  her  love;  but  she 
realized  that  as  a  boy  he  must  inevitably  grow 
away  from  her,  and  she  borrowed  no  trouble 
from  the  vagaries  of  his  ever  more  masculine 
point  of  view.  With  the  girl  it  was  far  different. 
To  lose  touch  with  Fern  would  rob  life  of  half 
its  sweetness.  Yet,  in  her  inmost  heart,  she 
had  to  admit  that  nowadays  she  could  not  al- 
ways understand  her  daughter.  This  vague 

1125] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

alarm,  joined  to  her  knowledge  of  his  devotion, 
caused  her  to  divine  that  Ben  Halsey  was  troubled 
too.  He  was  ever  seeking  her  out  for  little  talks 
in  which  Fern's  name  constantly  recurred,  and 
she  was  not  surprised  when  one  day  he  blurted 
out  an  avowal  of  his  love  and  doubt. 

"I  don't  know  what  you'll  think  of  me,  Mrs. 
Braisted,"  he  said,  "but  it  can't  be  anything 
worse  than  I've  called  myself.  I've  all  along 
felt  like  a  hound  to  deceive  you,  and  it's  reached 
a  point  where  I  must  make  a  clean  breast  of 
things.  The  fact  is,  months  ago  I  asked  Fern 
to  marry  me,  and  she  promised  that  she  would. 
Now  you  know  the  truth,  and  I  feel  a  lot  better 
for  it.  Before  I  sleep  I'll  have  it  out  with  Mr. 
Braisted,  too." 

Olive  had  never  liked  him  more.  If  he  had 
not  won  her  sympathy  before,  his  sturdy  manli- 
ness now  would  have  made  her  his  partisan; 
but  she  prudently  let  her  manner  speak  more 
than  her  words. 

"I  am  glad  you  came  to  me  first,"  she  said, 
"for  I  must  ask  you  to  say  nothing  to  Fern's 
father." 

"What,  never!  I  thought  surely  I'd  find  you 
on  my  side." 

"I  am  on  Fern's  side,  first  of  all,  and  if  you 
care  for  her  in  the  right  way  you'll  think  of  her 
first  yourself." 

He  readily  granted  the  justice  of  this  view. 

"Of  course,  I'm  not  good  enough  for  her,"  he 

[126] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

added,  humbly.  "Nobody  is;  but  she  seemed 
to  care  for  me,  and  that  being  so,  I — I  thought — " 

"I  should  want  my  girl  to  follow  her  heart," 
said  Olive,  as  he  paused  dejectedly. 

His  face  brightened. 

"I  can't  ask  anything  more  than  that." 

"But  you  are  both  too  young  to  think  of 
marrying.  You  have  your  way  to  make,  and 
she  is  a  chit  of  a  school-girl  with  no  more  idea 
of  what  life  means  than  a  kitten." 

The  lover  shook  his  head  in  emphatic  dissent. 

"I  see  that  even  you  don't  know  how  wise 
Fern  is — why,  she  told  me  almost  that  very  thing 
herself!  For  all  her  promise,  she  said  I  must 
not  consider  it  an  engagement  while  she's  in 
school,  or  expect  any — "  he  hesitated,  blushing — 
"any  of  the  usual — " 

"Yes,  that  was  sensible,"  agreed  Olive,  com- 
ing to  the  rescue.  "There's  the  possibility  that 
one  or  both  of  you  might  change." 

She  expected  a  stout  denial;   but  none  came. 

"That's  just  what  troubles  me,"  Ben  ad- 
mitted, soberly.  "There  is  no  danger  of  my 
changing;  but  Fern,  meeting  the  people  she 
does —  Oh,  well,  it  may  be  all  in  my  imagina- 
tion. It's  hard  not  to  see  her  oftener.  I  haven't 
had  a  real  talk  with  her  since  that  night  we  sur- 
prised you  at  the  theater.  I'd  like  to  call  at 
the  school  now  and  then;  but  she  wrote  me 
that  Miss  Abercrombie  would  probably  ob- 
ject." 

[1271 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Miss  Abercrombie  objects  to  a  great  many 
things." 

"That's  true  enough.  But  she  has  never 
minded  my  calling  on  Philippa  Blount.  I've 
sent  my  card  up  to  Philippa  two  or  three  times 
since  Christmas  in  the  hope  of  getting  a  glimpse 
of  Fern,  too;  but  it  was  no  use." 

"Did  Fern  know?" 

"I  suppose  so.  Philippa  would  naturally 
mention  it.  Once  I  was  tempted  to  make  a 
confidante  of  her;  but  I  thought  better  of  it. 
She's  a  brick,  Philippa;  but  I  doubt  if  she'd  care 
to  be  told  that  it  was  really  Fern  I  came  to  see." 

"I  doubt  it,  too,"  smiled  Olive.  "As  for 
Fern,  I've  seen  her  only  a  few  times  myself  lately, 
and  it  was  always  at  the  school.  She  says  Miss 
Abercrombie  doesn't  like  to  have  her  come  to 
us  for  over  Sunday.  It  breaks  into  her  studies. 
It's  the  same  way  with  parties.  I've  let  Fern 
know  every  time  there  was  to  be  a  dance  here, 
but  she  thought  she'd  better  not  ask  permission 
to  come." 

"The  Beauchamp  Manor  girls  go  to  concerts 
and  the  theaters,"  said  Ben.  "I've  several 
times  seen  Fern's  name  mentioned  in  box  parties, 
and  twice  she's  been  on  the  White  House  re- 
ception-lists." 

"Those  things  are  part  of  her  education." 

"What  they  call  education  at  her  school." 

Olive  bent  an  anxious  look  upon  him,  fearful 
lest  he  confirm  her  own  misgivings. 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"What  do  you  mean,  Ben?" 

"I  mean  they're  snobs  at  Beauchamp  Manor, 
and  put  wrong  ideas  in  the  girls'  heads.  When 
it  comes  to  teaching  them  to  look  down  on  their 
own  people  I  think  it's  time  to  call  a  halt.  Now, 
I  asked  Fern  if  she  wasn't  coming  to  any  more 
of  the  Walden  dances,  and  what  do  you  think 
she  said?  That  they  weren't  good  form!" 

"I  don't  suppose  they  can  be  called  fashion- 
able." Olive  could  think  of  no  other  defense. 

"She  meant  common,"  he  declared,  bringing 
out  the  word  as  if  he  bore  it  a  grudge.  "She 
said  a  girl  met  nobody  here  but  Congressmen's 
secretaries  and  department  clerks.  Would  Fern 
have  thought  of  that  herself?  I  don't  believe 
it.  It  has  Beauchamp  Manor  branded  all  over 
it.  That's  the  kind  of  thing  that  worries  me." 

It  worried  Olive;  but  she  put  a  cheerful  face 
on  her  anxiety.  Surely  no  harm  had  been  done 
Fern  that  a  few  days  at  Eastertime  with  her 
family  would  not  correct. 


CHAPTER  XI 

WHEN  the  time  came,  Nature,  at  least,  did 
her  best  to  speed  the  holiday.  Easter  fell 
quite  in  the  lap  of  that  spring  glory  which  is 
Washington's  boast.  In  all  the  little  squares 
and  circles  of  the  town  the  inevitable  generals 
on  horseback  did  their  warlike  posturing  to 
billowing  masses  of  tender  green  leafage,  shot 
here  and  there  by  the  rose-pink  of  almonds  or 
the  creamy  foam  of  magnolias.  But  this  was 
only  a  tithe  of  the  riches  which  April  lavished. 
From  the  Capitol  to  the  Monument,  from  the 
river  to  the  hills,  from  casement,  terrace,  door- 
yard,  lawn  and  park  flashed  the  gorgeous  early 
blooms. 

In  apparel  which  vied  with  the  splendor  of 
the  season  came  S.  J.,  a  college  man,  in  his  own 
proud  phrase,  but  to  average  vision  very  much 
of  a  boy  still.  In  features  and  complexion  he 
was  singularly  like  his  father,  whom  from  in- 
fancy he  had  admired  and  copied  till  Stephen 
Braisted  saw  his  very  smile  reproduced.  This 
hero-worship  had  amused  his  parents  at  first; 
but  of  late  years  Olive,  though  still  diverted  by 
the  lad's  mimicry,  grew  fearful  lest  he  end  by 

[ISO] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

turning  actor,  while  Steve,  too  often  reminded 
of  his  responsibilities  as  a  model  of  manly  vir- 
tue, found  the  role  more  irksome  than  humor- 
ous. Both,  therefore,  perceived  with  lively  in- 
terest that  their  son  had  begun  to  develop  a 
personality  of  his  own. 

The  outward  signs  of  this  efflorescence  were 
at  first  view  startling.  They  had  gone  together 
to  meet  his  train,  and  were  still  straining  their 
eyes  up  the  platform  when  a  shambling  figure, 
clad  in  vivid  tweeds,  whom  they  had  merely 
noticed  as  the  assiduous  attendant  of  a  white 
bulldog,  now  brought  up  before  Olive  and  pre- 
sented his  unfamiliar  face  for  her  salute. 

"Why,  S.  J.!"  she  exclaimed.  "You've  gone 
and  grown  a  mustache!" 

"Good  for  you,  mother,"  he  returned.  "The 
fellows  have  tried  to  make  me  think  they  couldn't 
even  see  it  with  a  microscope.  How'dy,  father? 
Let  me  introduce  you  to  Eli  Yale.  Eli,  show  the 
folks  what  you  think  of  Johnny  Harvard." 

Thus  enjoined,  the  bulldog  bared  his  fangs 
with  a  deep  growl  which  made  Olive  cry  out  in 
alarm. 

"Isn't  he  a  wonder?"  demanded  the  grinning 
owner.  "I  picked  him  up  at  a  bargain  on  our 
Christmas  tour.  Prize  dog,  too,  at  the  last  New 
York  show!  The  Glee  Club  made  a  mascot 
of  him,  and  fed  him  so  many  fool  things  I  had 
to  take  him  to  a  veterinary." 

"That  angel  face  will  look  better  in  a  muzzle 

[131] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

while  it's  down  here,"  said  Braisted,  who  had 
prudently  backed  out  of  biting  radius.  "I 
know  /  don't  want  any  damage  suits.  You're 
getting  stoop-shouldered,  my  boy,"  he  added, 
taking  critical  note  of  his  son's  loose-jointed 
progress  toward  the  carriage.  "Don't  stick 
your  nose  too  close  to  the  books." 

The  collegian  blushed  and  modified  his  care- 
fully acquired  slouch  a  trifle. 

"I  have  had  to  grind  a  bit  lately,"  he  re- 
plied. 

As  they  rolled  away  from  the  station,  Braisted, 
with  a  gesture  of  proprietorship,  waved  his  hand 
toward  the  great  dome  closing  the  vista. 

"  The  Capitol,  my  son.  The  wing  on  the  right 
contains  the  House." 

S.  J.  dismissed  the  marvel  with  a  nod. 

"Why  don't  you  get  into  the  Senate,  father?" 
he  demanded.  "  That's  what  counts,  you  know." 

"So  I've  heard,"  said  Braisted,  dryly.  "I 
suppose,  too,  you  would  cut  a  wider  swath  as 
a  Senator's  son?" 

"Sure.  That's  what  I  had  in  mind.  Any- 
body can  be  a  Representative.  Prod  him  up, 
mother,"  he  urged.  "He  could  land  the  sena- 
torship  if  he  tried.  Think  of  the  dash  you  and 
sis  could  make  then !  But  you'd  have  to  smarten 
up  a  bit,"  he  added,  critically.  "Why,  you 
would  look  ten  years  younger  in  a  Paris  hat." 

"That's  right,"  chimed  in  Braisted.  "I  tell 
her  she  can't  do  things  in  a  one-horse  way  in 

[132] 


THE    WOMAN   OF    IT 

this  town;  but  I  might  as  well  talk  to  the  wind. 
Somehow  your  mother  can't  grasp  the  fact  that 
she's  out  of  Tuscarora  County." 

S.  J.  perceived  by  his  mother's  face  that  this 
was  a  sore  point,  and  promptly  dealt  a  blow  in 
behalf  of  the  weaker  side. 

' 'If  you  did  but  know  it,"  he  told  his  father, 
"you've  got  some  hayseed  left  in  your  own  hair. 
That  waistcoat  of  yours  is  cut  backwoods  style, 
sure  enough.  It's  low  enough  to  go  with  a 
dinner  jacket." 

While  grateful  for  his  championship,  Olive 
deemed  his  manner  lacking  in  filial  respect  and 
reproved  him;  but  Steve  brushed  aside  her 
protest  with  a  laugh. 

"I  guess  I  can  take  a  joke  now  and  then," 
he  retorted;  but  his  enjoyment  of  the  jest  did 
not  seem  excessive.  "When  it  comes  to  shying 
stones,"  he  countered,  "it  strikes  me,  youngster, 
that  you're  living  in  a  pretty  middling  glass 
house  yourself.  Barring  horse-blankets,  I  haven't 
seen  anything  quite  like  that  suit  of  yours." 

"No,  you  wouldn't  be  apt  to,"  returned  his 
son,  calmly.  "It's  very  exclusive.  It  came 
from  one  of  the  big  London  tailors  who  sends 
over  a  man  twice  a  year  for  orders." 

His  parents  felt  rather  at  a  loss  for  topics  of 
conversation  with  a  personage  who  held  such 
advanced  views  on  clothes  and  betrayed  no 
marked  interest  in  the  capital  of  his  country, 
though  he  had  never  seen  it  before;  but  S.  J. 

[133] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

cheerfully  took  the  lead  himself  and  discussed 
the  vital  topic  of  his  college  world,  the  fitness 
of  the  crew,  till  Braisted  interrupted  a  detailed 
criticism  of  the  peerless  eight  with  a  word  to 
the  coachman. 

"It  was  your  mother's  plan  to  drive  straight 
out  to  Beauchamp  Manor  and  pick  up  your 
sister,  for  her  vacation  begins  to-day,"  he  ex- 
plained; "but  we  didn't  count  on  a  seatful  of 
dog.  If  Fern  is  to  get  in,  Eli  must  pile  out. 
He'll  be  safe  enough  at  the  hotel." 

S.  J.  looked  anxious. 

"They  won't  go  and  feed  him,  I  hope?  The 
vet  said  I  must  be  mighty  particular  about  his 
diet." 

"Don't  you  worry  that  he'll  get  any  free  meals 
in  these  parts.  Cash  on  delivery  is  the  motto  of 
this  town.  Nobody  will  pamper  Eli  till  they've 
seen  the  color  of  your  money."  He  looked 
wonderingly  after  the  youth  as  S.  J.,  still  con- 
cerned for  the  dog's  welfare,  followed  the  porter 
into  the  hotel.  "So  that's  what  a  little  dose  of 
college  can  do!"  he  commented,  with  a  short 
laugh.  "Good  name  for  'em — freshmen!" 

"The  nonsense  will  wear  off,"  declared  Olive, 
confidently.  "He's  a  good  boy." 

"I  certainly  hope  that  suit  of  his  will  wear 
off,"  grunted  Braisted.  "To  have  his  son 
parade  a  John  Bull  get-up  like  that  makes  a 
good  protectionist  look  cheap." 

The  mother  smiled  to  herself,  for  beneath  the 

[134] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

bluster  she  read  his  great  pride.  Should  the 
lad  ever  go  seriously  amiss,  Steve's  indulgence 
would  probably  outrun  her  own.  Indeed,  his 
present  patience  exceeded  hers,  for,  as  the 
minutes  lapsed  and  S.  J.  still  lingered  within, 
she  began  to  fear  that  Fern  would  give  them 
up  and  take  measures  of  her  own  to  reach  the 
Walden. 

"You  don't  seem  very  anxious  to  see  your 
sister,"  she  said,  in  mild  reproof,  when  he  finally 
appeared. 

"Oh,  I  shall  have  old  Fern  all  the  week,"  he 
replied,  easily.  "I  wish  you  had  been  inside 
to  see  that  dog  with  his  sporting  blood  up. 
He  sighted  the  hotel  cat,  and  it  took  three  bell- 
hops to  hold  him." 

Steve  groaned. 

"Now  Eli  will  be  popular,"  he  prophesied. 
"  That  cat  has  a  pedigree  like  a  lord,  and  is  the 
pride  of  the  house." 

"I  knew  she  had  breeding,"  said  S.  J.,  de- 
lighted to  find  his  judgment  confirmed.  "You 
could  tell  that  by  the  way  she  held  her  ground. 
It  just  tantalized  Eli  half  to  death  to  have  us 
interfere.  He  appreciates  pluck  wherever  he 
sees  it." 

"Well,"  put  in  his  father,  "to  quit  the  sub- 
ject of  a  dog,  what  do  you  think  of  my  new 
horses?" 

"Yours?"     He  craned  to  look  them  over. 

"They'd  ought  to  be.     I  paid  enough." 

[135] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Carriage  too?" 

"Yes.  At  first  I  arranged  with  a  livery  to 
take  your  mother  round  on  this  continuous 
performance  circuit  that  the  women  have  for 
getting  rid  of  calling-cards.  Then,  one  day 
lately,  I  saw  these  bays  spanking  along  the  river- 
drive,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  right  there  and 
then  that  I  wanted  them  What  do  you  think?" 

"Waste  of  good  money.  You  ought  to  have 
bought  an  automobile.  Who  wants  to  jog  along 
after  horseflesh  these  days?" 

"I  do,  for  one,"  said  Olive.  "I  like  the  old 
way  better." 

As  if  her  opinion  decided  him,  Braisted  at 
once  took  sides  with  his  son. 

"I've  no  old  fogy  ideas  about  it,"  he  declared. 
"I'm  broad-gauge  enough  to  appreciate  horses 
and  motors  both,  and  maybe  we'll  have  both 
before  long." 

S.  J.  took  him  up  excitedly  and  volleyed  ques- 
tions; but  his  father  chose  to  make  a  mystery 
of  his  intentions. 

"You'll  all  be  wiser  before  sundown,"  he 
hinted. 

They  went  indoors  at  Beauchamp  Manor  that 
S.  J.  might  see  the  place;  but,  like  the  Capitol, 
it  failed  to  astonish  him.  Fern,  whom  it  had 
once  overawed,  now  exhibited  the  "hall"  and 
other  wonders  with  indifference. 

"It's  all  very  well  in  its  way,"  she  said, 
languidly,  "but  nobody  wants  to  be  taught 

[136] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

something  at  every  turn.  Abby  makes  us  feel 
that  everything  is  here  for  an  edifying  purpose. 
She  couldn't  rub  it  in  more  if  she  used  labels. 
Now  for  the  real  atmosphere,  you  ought  to 
see  Philippa  Blount's  home  in  New  York.  Why, 
her  father  brought  over  whole  ceilings  from  a 
Venetian  palace!  I'm  sorry,  S.  J.,  that  Abby 
herself  is  out.  She's  such  a  freak." 

"You  hadn't  ought  to  speak  so  of  your  prin- 
cipal," remonstrated  her  mother,  though  secret- 
ly relieved  that  Miss  Abercrombie  had  toppled 
from  her  pedestal. 

"And  you  ought  not  to  say  'hadn't  ought,' 
mother." 

Braisted  gave  a  loud  laugh. 

"She  had  you  there,  Ollie,"  he  said.  "Your 
grammar  does  need  tinkering.  I've  often  noticed 
it  since  we've  lived  here  where  folks  are  particular." 

"You  made  the  same  break  yourself  when 
you  were  talking  horse  a  while  ago,"  put  in 
S.  J.,  with  rigorous  justice.  "Let's  get  out  of 
this.  I've  had  enough  school.  Aren't  you 
ready  yet,  Fernie?" 

His  sister  drew  herself  up. 

"I  don't  care  to  be  called  Fernie,"  she  in- 
structed. "Fern  is  bad  enough." 

"Oh,  come  off,  Fernie!"  he  scoffed.  "You're 
only  a  kid." 

When  they  rejoined  the  carriage  under  the 
feudal  porte-cochere,  Braisted  gave  a  whispered 
direction  to  the  coachman. 

10  [ 137  ] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"I  have  something  I  want  to  show  you  all, 
something  I've  saved  special  for  to-day,"  he 
vouchsafed.  "Now  don't  pester  me  with  ques- 
tions," he  added.  "It  will  speak  for  itself." 

"Perhaps  it's  a  parrot,"  hazarded  S.  J., 
facetiously. 

"Or  a  phonograph,"  contributed  Fern;  "but 
I  hope  not.  The  most  ordinary  people  buy 
such  things  nowadays.  I  wish  you  would  give 
away  the  one  we  have  in  Tuscarora  Falls." 

"Listen  to  her!"  invited  her  brother.  "She 
used  to  make  it  grind  away  by  the  hour." 

Fern  met  his  levity  with  lofty  tolerance. 

"My  taste  has  changed  in  many  things,"  she 
stated.  "Yours  will,  too,  as  your  mind  de- 
velops." 

"Gee!"  he  ejaculated.  "You  talk  like  Me- 
thuselah's grandmother.  Has  your  taste  changed 
about  Ben  Halsey?  You  were  pretty  sweet  on 
him  before  I  left  home  last  fall." 

The  effect  of  this  jocose  inquiry  astonished 
him.  His  father  scowled,  his  mother  became 
grave,  his  sister  turned  scarlet,  and  for  a  painful 
little  interval  embarrassed  silence  blanketed  the 
group.  At  last  Olive  found  her  voice. 

"You've  picked  up  a  bad  habit  of  teasing, 
S.  J.,"  she  admonished,  with  a  diplomatic  evasion 
of  the  real  issue.  "Of  course,  Fern's  ideas  have 
changed  in  some  ways.  That's  what  she's  in 
school  for.  I  wish  I'd  had  her  opportunities 
when  I  was  her  age." 

[138] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

S.  J.  dropped  the  discussion  with  despatch  and 
tried  to  conciliate  his  sister  with  tales  of  Eli's 
cleverness  until  his  eye,  which,  without  appear- 
ing to  notice  anything,  saw  much,  suggested 
another  topic. 

"You  seem  to  know  a  good-sized  bunch  of 
people  here,"  he  remarked.  "Most  of  the  way 
out  it  kept  my  hat  bobbing,  and  now  we've 
headed  back  it  looks  like  the  same  story." 

Braisted  was  highly  gratified. 

"We  are  pretty  well  known  between  us,"  he 
assented.  "The  folks  we  met  driving  were 
mainly  your  mother's  calling  crowd;  but  all 
those  men  you  saw  down-town  bowed  to  me.  It 
keeps  me  guessing  to  remember  everybody;  but 
Halsey  has  been  a  lot  of  help.  I  wish  I  had  his 
knack  of  fitting  names  to  faces.  Of  course,  peo- 
ple can  place  me  right  away  by  the  relish. 
Why,  the  other  day  a  Senator  told  me  that  my 
face  was  as  well  known  to  the  country  as  the 
President's." 

"That  reminds  me,"  said  S.  J.  "I  wish  you 
would  take  your  face  off  the  relish  labels." 

"So  do  I,"  seconded  Fern.  "It's  most  em- 
barrassing sometimes." 

"I  don't  see  what  difference  it  can  make  to 
you,"  returned  her  brother;  "but  it's  a  con- 
founded nuisance  where  I  am  concerned.  If 
father  and  I  didn't  look  alike,  it  wouldn't  matter; 
but  we  do,  and  the  fellows  saw  it  at  once." 

"Well,  what  of  it?"  asked  Braisted,  with  heat. 

[139] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"What  ails  my  face?  What's  my  business  to 
your  rah-rah  friends?  Are  you  ashamed  of  the 
money  that  pays  the  fiddler?  Because,  if  you 
are,  I  want  to  serve  notice  right  here — 

"Of  course  he  isn't,  Steve,"  Olive  interfered. 
"Let  S.  J.  have  his  say  out." 

But  the  youth  found  his  eloquence  frozen  at 
the  fount. 

"It  isn't  pleasant  to  be  called  *  Pickles 'and 
*  Imperial  Braisted' — that's  all,"  he  concluded, 
lamely. 

"Humph!"  said  Braisted,  and,  turning  on  his 
daughter,  demanded:  "What's  your  complaint?" 

Daunted  by  the  violence  of  the  storm,  Fern 
blushed  to  find  herself  cross-examined;  but  the 
strength  of  her  convictions  bolstered  her  cour- 
age. 

"It's  common,  father,"  she  replied,  quietly. 
"That's  the  simple  truth.  I  used  to  think  it 
was  fine  to  see  your  picture  on  the  label  and  in 
the  advertisements  everywhere;  but  I  know 
better  now.  It's  mainly  vulgar  quacks  who 
advertise  their  faces — patent-medicine  frauds 
and  the  like.  Why  should  you  want  to  be 
classed  with  them?" 

Her  unimpassioned  argument  sobered  Brai- 
sted. 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that  side  of  it,"  he  con- 
ceded. "Anyhow,  using  my  picture  was  your 
mother's  idea." 

"  That's  right !    Pile  it  on  mother !"  cried  S.  J., 

[140] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

who  saw  Olive  wince  at  this  ungenerous  choice 
of  scapegoat.  "She  made  you  plaster  it  on  all 
the  bill-boards,  too,  I  dare  say?" 

"Shut  up!"  roared  his  father.  "I've  had 
enough  of  your  lip." 

And  so,  with  no  cheerful  face  among  them 
save  the  coachman's,  they  came  to  Stephen 
Braisted's  great  surprise. 


CHAPTER  XII 

r  I  ^HEY  had  swung  round  to  the  high  north- 
-1  west,  once  fields  where  the  untried  armies 
of  the  Union  lay  encamped,  and  now,  entering 
a  street  of  varied  architecture  and  evident 
wealth,  turned  sharply  in  at  a  gateway  that  gave 
to  the  untutored  eye  slight  hint  of  its  cost.  The 
stone  and  iron  barrier,  of  which  this  and  a  twin 
entrance  formed  a  part,  succeeded  by  the  aid 
of  cleverly  disposed  shrubbery  in  lending  an  air 
of  seclusion  to  a  house  that  in  reality  hugged 
the  street. 

"Hello!"  called  S.  J.,  delighted  to  escape 
from  the  encircling  gloom.  "Whose  palace  is 
this?" 

"It's  the  Colburn  house,''  explained  Fern, 
plucking  up  heart.  "Our  fine-arts  teacher 
mentioned  it  in  class  only  yesterday." 

Her  father's  austerity  relaxed. 

"What  did  your  teacher  say?" 

"She  called  it  the  best  example  of  Italian 
Renaissance  in  Washington.  Are  we  going  in? 
I  thought  all  the  family  were  away?" 

"So  they  are,  what's  left  of  them,"  he  an- 
swered, helping  them  dismount. 

[142] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

Olive  stared  wide-eyed  as  her  husband  drew 
a  key  from  his  pocket. 

"What  is  it,  Steve?"  she  asked.  "Why  are 
we  here?" 

Braisted  chuckled,  and,  unlocking  the  heavy 
outer  door,  crossed  a  short  vestibule,  and,  with 
a  sweeping  gesture,  introduced  them  to  an 
atrium  of  many  white  columns  and  a  command- 
ing white  staircase  which  swept  upward  with 
fine  dignity  into  a  gallery  surrounding  the  en- 
tire chamber.  Antique  stone  benches,  sup- 
ported by  griffins,  stood  on  either  hand;  classic 
statuary  gleamed  from  pedestal  and  niche;  and, 
in  the  very  center  of  the  mosaic  court  beneath 
a  bronze  lantern  of  Florentine  workmanship  de- 
pending from  the  lofty  ceiling,  a  great  Venus 
Genetrix  queened  it  as  if  the  place  were  her 
temple.  Measured  by  every-day  standards,  the 
house  seemed  enormous,  and  when  the  heavy 
door  clanged  shut  behind  them  it  woke  an 
echo  which  Olive,  now  guessing  the  truth,  felt 
beat  upon  her  heart. 

"Steve!"  she  faltered,  facing  him  wildly, 
"what  have  you  done?" 

"Bought  a  home,"  he  said.  "Pretty  snug 
little  cabin,  don't  you  think?" 

It  fell  to  S.  J.  to  break  the  dazed  silence,  and 
his  words  voiced  Olive's  dismay  as  accurately 
as  if  her  own  lips  had  spoken. 

"A  home!"  he  ejaculated.  "It  looks  like  a 
public  library!" 

[143] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"That's  what  I  like  about  it,"  asserted  the 
man,  eagerly.  "It  isn't  like  a  million  other 
houses;  it's  got  style;  it  makes  a  man  respect 
himself  to  think  he  owns  it.  Why  shouldn't  we 
live  in  a  tiptop  way,  I  want  to  know,  if  we  have 
the  dollars  to  make  good?" 

"But  can  we  afford  it,  Steve?"  Olive,  weak- 
kneed  with  excitement,  sank  upon  one  of  the 
stone  seats.  "When  I  remember  how  poor  we 
were,  and  what  a  tiny  sum  we  thought  would 
be  riches  if  we  could  lay  hands  on  it,  I  get 
afraid." 

"It  doesn't  affect  me  that  way.  It  only 
makes  me  smile  to  think  what  a  gump  I  was  in 
those  days.  A  cent  looked  bigger  than  a  dollar 
does  now.  But  fire  away,  Olive.  Get  all  this 
fever  and  ague  out  of  your  system  at  once." 

"I  don't  mean  the  money  alone,"  she  said. 
"Maybe  I'm  old-fashioned,  Steve,  but  I  doubt 
if  we  can  be  as  honest  and  God-fearing  in  this 
grand  place  as  we  were  when  we  had  to  eat 
off  the  kitchen  table.  I  doubt  if  we'll  be  as 
happy." 

"But  you  simply  won't  let  yourself  be  happy. 
That's  what  ails  you,  Olive.  It's  been  a  constant 
fight  for  me  all  winter  long  to  drag  you  out  of 
the  old  rut.  What's  the  use  of  our  money  if 
we  haven't  the  ambition  to  live  differently  than 
we  did." 

"It's  living  wisely,  I  mean." 

"That's  what  I  mean,  too.     I'm  not  such  a 

[144] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

saphead  as  to  spend  beyond  my  income.  And 
if  we  can  afford  to  live  like  the  best,  I  say  do  it." 

"So  do  I,  father,"  agreed  Fern.  "Let's  see 
the  rest  of  the  house.  So  far  I  think  it's  splen- 
did." 

"That's  the  talk.  I'm  glad  to  find  one  mem- 
ber of  the  family  who  appreciates  what  I'm 
trying  to  do.  Why,  I  thought  when  I  brought 
you  into  this  place  and  told  you  it  was  yours, 
it  would  make  you  jump  out  of  your  skins." 

"Oh,  it  suits  me,"  said  S.  J.,  recovering  his 
native  bounce.  "Don't  think  I'm  kicking  be- 
cause your  plain  marble  trimmings  aren't  ala- 
baster. I  dare  say  you  did  the  best  you  could." 

"And  I  think  it's  fine,  too,  Steve,"  assured  his 
wife,  sorry  now  for  his  disappointment.  "It 
took  my  breath  away,  that's  all." 

Restraining  the  children,  who  were  eager  to 
explore,  the  now  appeased  master  of  the  house 
delayed  to  point  out  the  superior  way  in  which 
the  wonder  had  been  wrought. 

"Expense  was  simply  no  object  to  Lawrence 
Colburn,"  he  explained.  "If  the  particular 
kind  of  stone  he  fancied  was  only  quarried 
abroad,  no  matter;  that  was  the  article  he  would 
have.  And  it  was  the  same  story  from  start 
to  finish.  The  house  was  his  hobby,  and  he 
rode  it  to  death.  He  sank  a  fortune  in  it — a 
fortune!  But  don't  think  for  a  minute  I'm 
paying  his  price,"  he  threw  in,  with  a  shrewd 
smile.  "Not  much.  The  property  is  worth  an 

[145] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

easy  forty  thousand  more  than  I  gave  for  it,  and 
the  neighborhood  is  on  the  boom.  Even  if  I 
hadn't  wanted  to  use  it  myself,  I'd  have  bought. 
As  an  investment  it's  gilt-edged.  Maybe  you 
never  heard  Colburn's  history?" 

"I  know  he  died  lately,"  said  Fern. 

"Yes;  shot  himself  in  a  New  York  hotel. 
I'll  come  to  that  part  by  and  by.  To  begin 
with,  the  Colburns  belong  to  the  Old  Washing- 
tonian  mossbacks  who  think  God  Almighty  made 
'em  of  a  special  kind  of  mud.  Grand-daddy 
Colburn — his  name  was  Lawrence,  too — was 
one  of  those  high-stepping  Federalist  office- 
holders that  Andrew  Jackson  kicked  out  of  their 
jobs.  He  had  put  by  for  a  rainy  day,  however, 
and  owned  a  house  a  little  this  side  of  the  Capi- 
tol, and  a  farm  that  took  in  this  very  land  we're 
standing  on  now.  Lawrence  number  two  was 
a  lawyer  who  rolled  up  a  tidy  little  sum  in  govern- 
ment contracts  when  the  Civil  War  broke  out. 
He  was  counted  a  rich  man  for  those  days,  and 
cut  quite  a  dash  with  race-horses  and  blooded 
stock.  The  old  house  in  town — it's  a  tailor- 
shop  now — he  let  go,  for  the  neighborhood  went 
to  seed  soon  after  the x  war,  and  as  the  live  stock 
were  his  main  interest,  he  moved  out  here  and 
built  the  old  farm-house  over  into  a  sightly 
country  residence.  Well,  he  lived  to  be  an  old 
man,  rising  eighty,  and  Lawrence  number  three 
— young  Larry,  they  called  him  till  he  had  gray 
hair — didn't  lay  hands  on  the  wherewithal  till 

[146] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

pretty  recent  times.  His  first  move  was  to  cut 
the  farm  into  building  lots  and  sell  dear  by  the 
front  foot  what  had  been  bought  cheap  by  the 
acre.  It  didn't  take  any  brains.  The  city 
simply  grew  this  way  while  he  was  loafing 
around  Europe  waiting  for  his  father  to  pass 
in  his  checks.  But  he  got  the  notion  that  he 
was  a  financier,  and  began  to  monkey  with  the 
stock-market.  He  had  greenhorn's  luck  at  first, 
and  on  the  strength  of  his  easy  money  he  built 
this  house  and  fitted  it  up  with  stuff  he  and  his 
wife  had  been  picking  up  everywhere  for  years. 
I  hear  he  lived  here  just  one  winter,  and  hit  up 
the  pace  as  if  he  controlled  South  African  dia- 
monds or  Standard  Oil.  Then  his  wife  and 
daughter  piked  for  foreign  parts  to  spend  the 
hot  weather,  and  he,  either  to  kill  time  or  make 
up  for  the  winter's  drain,  took  another  plunge 
in  Wall  Street,  and  wound  himself  up  short  and 
sharp.  Being  as  proud  as  the  drum-major  of 
a  nigger  band,  he  couldn't  stand  the  sight  of  the 
mess  he'd  made  of  things  and  suicided,  as  I  said 
at  first.  The  property  stood  in  his  wife's  name; 
but  she  up  and  sold  it  for  the  sake  of  the  credi- 
tors. She  hadn't  much  business  gumption  in  her 
make-up.  She  didn't  advertise  the  place,  or  put 
it  on  the  market  sensibly;  just  grabbed  at  the 
offer  I  made  through  a  real-estate  friend  who 
tipped  me  off." 

"Poor    thing!"    exclaimed    Olive.     "Was    it 
right  to  give  her  so  little?" 
[147] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

Braisted  laughed. 

"You're  a  weathervane  for  consistency.  A 
while  ago  you  were  at  me  hammer  and  tongs 
because  you  were  afraid  I'd  paid  too  much. 
Now  it's  not  enough.  How  is  a  fellow  to  please 

you?" 

"Perhaps  Mrs.  Colburn  would  have  turned 
the  extra  money  over  to  the  Wall  Street  sharks," 
suggested  S.  J. 

"Exactly.  The  gang  who  fleeced  her  hus- 
band would  have  got  my  good  money.  That's 
what  decided  me  to  offer  the  low  price  I  did." 

"Are  you  sure?"  pressed  Olive. 

"Nothing  is  more  certain.  Mrs.  Colburn  had 
a  little  cash  in  her  own  right,  and  that's  what 
she'll  live  on  somewhere  across  the  water.  She 
considered  this  house  her  husband's,  and  the 
proceeds  his  creditors' — a  fool  idea,  of  course; 
but  she  would  have  it  so.  My  check  seemed  to 
blister  her  fingers  till  she  could  fork  it  over  to 
them.  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about,  for 
when  the  voucher  came  back  it  told  the  story. 
She  indorsed  it  over  to  those  swindlers  at  once. 
Whether  she'll  feel  bound  to  do  the  same  by  the 
furniture  is  beyond  my  guess." 

Fern  clapped  her  hands. 

"Father!"  she  exclaimed.  "Can  we  buy 
that,  too?" 

"If  we  want  their  second-hand  stuff.  I've 
got  a  thirty-day  option  on  the  whole  lot;  wheth- 
er we  buy  or  not  depends  on  you  women -folks.  If 

[148] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

we  don't  invest,"  he  added,  reflectively,  "I  sup- 
pose I'll  have  to  hunt  up  some  other  figgers  for 
this  hall.  It  seems  to  need  knickknacks  of  that 
kind.  Isn't  that  so,  Fern?  You're  up  on  art." 

"Oh,  do  let's  keep  these,"  she  begged. 
"They're  beautiful.  You  like  them,  mother, 
don't  you?" 

"Yes;  they're  pretty,"  assented  Olive,  half- 
heartedly. "I  wish  they  had  more  clothes; 
but  it  don't  seem  the  fashion  to  put  them  on 
statues  nowadays." 

"But  these  aren't  new-fashioned,"  explained 
the  girl.  "They  are  copies  of  famous  works 
by  the  Greeks,  who  certainly  knew  what  they 
were  about.  You  surely  wouldn't  want  them 
to  look  like  those  frock-coated  horrors  in  Stat- 
uary Hall  up  at  the  Capitol?" 

"So  you've  been  there  already!"  said  her 
mother.  "That  was  one  of  the  sights  I  counted 
on  showing  you  and  S.  J.  this  week.  I  must 
say  I  didn't  see  anything  horrible  about  Statuary 
Hall,"  she  went  on,  feeling  that  ridicule  of  the 
statues  in  some  way  reflected  upon  the  patriotic 
originals. 

"No  more  did  I,"  protested  Braisted,  who  had 
proudly  exhibited  these  offerings  of  the  States 
to  visiting  constituents.  "I  call  some  of  them 
right  clever  What  ails  them,  professor?" 

Fern  floundered,  finding  her  memory  treacher- 
ous. 

"I  couldn't  begin  to  tell  you  now  in  detail," 
IH9] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

she  answered.  "Our  fine-arts  teacher  said  the 
display  was  a  disgrace  to  the  country.  You 
see,  there's  hardly  anything  dignified  or — or 
graceful  about  them.  If  one  happens  to  be 
good,  the  next  piece  of  trash  spoils  its  effect. 
Not  one  of  them  inspires  you  like  these." 

"Well,  anyhow,  this  particular  consignment 
is  of  Carrara  marble,  and  cost  a  pot  of  money," 
Braisted  ended  the  discussion.  "Let's  don't 
camp  here  in  the  hall  all  day.  There  are  a  few 
other  things  to  talk  over  besides  Larry  Colburn, 
and  whether  these  stone  ladies  should  wear 
petticoats  and  stays.  Come  along  and  see  the 
balance  of  the  premises.  It  isn't  all  entrance, 
by  a  long  shot." 

This  was  no  idle  boast.  A  structure  which 
would  have  fitted  without  discord  into  the  land- 
scape of  Tuscany  or  Rome,  it  conveyed  an  abso- 
lutely fresh  and  dream-like  experience  to  Olive. 
By  aid  of  fresco,  carving  and  tapestry,  old  paint- 
ings, old  books,  old  furniture,  and  the  miscel- 
laneous store  of  twenty  years'  chaffer  with  ven- 
ders of  the  spoil  of  dead  centuries,  Lawrence 
Colburn,  third  of  his  name,  had  created  an 
illusion  of  the  Italy  which  in  his  heart  of  hearts 
he  had  infinitely  preferred  to  the  land  of  his 
birth.  Yet,  when  all  was  said — and  to  catalogue 
what  was  beautiful  was  to  say  much — it  was  still 
an  illusion.  Within  and  without,  the  funda- 
mental stones  of  the  house  were  innocent  of  the 
mellow  touch  of  time;  the  candid  freshness  of 

[150] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

the  Western  world  enveloped  all;  beyond  the 
tranquil  outlook,  with  its  inspiring  dome  that  had 
reminded  the  nomad  of  the  Eternal  City,  teemed, 
pulsed,  and  roared  the  great  experiment  America. 

Steve,  who  had  led  his  brood  to  a  loggia  at 
the  rear  to  enjoy  the  full  glory  of  this  prospect 
which  he  recklessly  pitted  against  any  civic 
view  in  the  world,  now  bespoke  their .  wonder 
for  the  grounds  just  beneath. 

"First  off,"  he  said,  "I  couldn't  make  out 
why  he  put  his  house  so  close  to  the  street;  but 
the  minute  I  set  foot  on  this  balcony  I  under- 
stood. It  lifted  him  high  enough  on  the  slope 
to  overlook  the  tree-tops,  and  it  gave  him  space 
for  this  neat  backyard  effect  that  sort  of  leads 
up  to  the  view  of  the  town.  That's  what  they 
call  a  sunken  garden,  I'm  told.  Just  wait  here 
a  moment  while  I  see  if  the  caretaker  is  about. 
I'll  have  him  turn  on  the  waterworks  for  you. 
It's  a  nice  sight." 

They  noted  a  sun-dial  as  they  waited,  and  in 
little  recesses  in  the  greenery  curious  marble 
figures,  their  bodies  growing  from  their  pedestals, 
which  the  learned  Fern  said  were  satyrs  and 
fauns.  At  either  end  of  the  white  basin  of 
water,  toward  which  all  the  formal  little  paths 
converged,  there  sported,  shell  at  mouth,  a 
Triton;  and  when  the  releasing  mechanism  was 
found,  these  droll  creatures  blew  at  each  other 
great  streams  that  interlaced  and  glittered  in 
the  slanting  sunlight. 

[1511 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"I  consider  that  fountain  alone  worth  the 
price  of  admission,"  said  Braisted,  rejoining 
them  indoors  at  the  foot  of  the  monumental 
staircase.  "It's  patterned  after  something 
foreign." 

"Like  everything  else  on  the  ranch,"  observed 
S.  J.  "Don't  talk  to  me  about  English  clothes. 
The  only  American  thing  about  your  whole  place 
is  the  plumbing!  But  it's  all  right,  father.  I'll 
come  and  live  with  you  if  only  for  the  sake  of 
the  billiard-room  on  the  top  floor.  I  speak  for 
the  suite  of  rooms  adjoining,  if  nobody  else  has 
staked  out  a  claim." 

"I've  picked  mine,"  said  Fern. 

"Well?"  demanded  her  father,  highly  pleased 
that  the  children  took  so  eagerly  to  the  new 
house. 

"I'd  like  the  rooms  near  S.  J.'s.  I  mean 
those  done  in  yellow  and  white  —  my  school 
colors." 

"So!  Well,  you're  the  one  to  please.  I 
thought  maybe  you  would  hit  on  the  quarters 
Colburn  fitted  up  for  his  daughter.  They're  the 
rooms  with  the  view  of  the  city  and  the  sunken 
bath.  Sunken  bath,  sunken  garden,  sunken 
fortune!  That  man  couldn't  get  away  from 
the  word!  But  to  come  to  a  vote,"  he  broke  off, 
with  a  final  survey  of  the  still  marble  deities 
which  had  an  air  of  listening  to  his  words,  "do 
or  don't  we  buy  these  images  and  the  rest  of 
the  furniture?" 

[152] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

The  children  chorused  "yes,"  and  their  father 
called  the  decision  unanimous.  It  did  not  occur 
to  him  to  question  Olive.  Nor  did  she  herself 
give  the  matter  a  thought.  She  could  as  yet 
confront  the  edifice  only  as  a  colossal  whole. 

11 


CHAPTER  XIII 

AS  the  Braisteds  neared  the  Walden,  an  auto- 
•**•  mobile  with  a  woman  at  the  steering-wheel 
overtook  and  passed  them. 

"Flossy  little  car,  that!"  said  S.  J.,  admiringly. 
"Stunning  woman,  too.  Why,  she's  waving  to 
us!  Another  swell  friend  of  yours,  father?" 

The  question  nettled  Braisted. 

"Your  mother  knows  Mrs.  Estabrook  as  well 
as  I  do,'*  he  replied,  testily. 

S.  J.  turned  an  inquiring  grin  at  his  mother, 
but  another  matter  absorbed  her  thoughts. 
Mrs.  Estabrook's  companion  was  Proctor  Hoyt. 
She  stole  a  sidelong  glance  at  Fern  and  felt  her 
heart  sink.  The  girl  had  whipped  out  a  vanity- 
box  and  was  powdering  her  pretty  nose  against 
the  coming  meeting. 

The  pair  awaited  them  at  the  curb,  and  Mrs. 
Estabrook,  after  beaming  impressively  on  all, 
directed  a  shaft  of  special  radiance  at  Steve. 

"Are  my  lips  unsealed?"  she  queried,  archly. 

Braisted  looked  foolish. 

"Of  course,"  he  assented,  awkwardly.  "The 
cat  is  out  of  the  bag  now." 

Mrs.  Estabrook  extended  both  hands  to  Olive. 

[154] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"Then,  my  dear  Lady  of  the  House  Beautiful," 
she  cried,  "accept  my  congratulations.  It  will 
be  a  treasured  memory  that  I  had  a  share  in 
your  husband's  princely  surprise." 

Olive  submitted  wonderingly  to  these  greet- 
ings 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  said,  turning  to 
Steve. 

"I  asked  Mrs.  Estabrook's  advice  about  the 
Colburn  place,"  he  explained,  growing  red. 

"And  mine,"  added  Hoyt.  "He  mistrusted 
his  own  sound  judgment.  He  asked  us  to  tell 
him  if  it  was  a  home  really  worthy  of  his  family." 
He  dropped  Olive's  passive  hand  for  Fern's 
fluttering  clasp,  and  ran  a  swiftly  appraising 
eye  over  the  collegian.  "I  would  have  known 
you  for  Stephen  Braisted's  son  anywhere,"  he 
asserted.  "The  likeness  is  astonishing." 

The  youth  rounded  on  his  father. 

"Do  you  hear  that?"  he  demanded,  bitterly. 
"That's  what  they  all  hand  out  to  me.  If  you 
don't  change  the  relish  label  I'll  change  my 
name." 

Steve's  temper  had  well-nigh  slipped  its  easy 
leash,  and  he  opened  his  lips  for  caustic  repartee. 
Then,  taking  thought,  he  deferred  S.  J.'s  anni- 
hilation, and,  inviting  Hoyt  to  dinner  instead, 
bore  him  away,  to  Fern's  chagrin,  for  a  pre- 
liminary cocktail  at  the  subterranean  bar. 

"Who  is  this  man  Hoyt?"  S.  J.  asked  his 
mother,  as  the  group  scattered. 

[155] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"A  new  friend  of  Steve's." 

"I'll  bet  he's  a  four-flusher.  Who's  his  run- 
ning mate?" 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  slang.  Half  the 
time  I  don't  understand  you.  She  isn't  his  wife, 
if  that's  what  you  mean.  Mrs.  Estabrook  is 
another  of  Steve's  friends." 

S.  J.  laughed. 

"I  saw  at  the  kick-off  that  she  was  no  pal  of 
yours,"  he  said.  "You  certainly  handed  her 
the  glare  frappe  when  the  governor  owned  up 
that  he  had  shown  her  through  the  shack 
ahead  of  the  family.  He  meant  all  right, 
though." 

"Of  course  he  meant  all  right,"  she  rebuked, 
sharply,  for  she  thought  him  too  observant  by 
far.  "Your  father  can't  be  expected  to  see 
things  from  a  woman's  point  of  view." 

"I  should  say  not.  The  chaps  who  know  it 
all  about  women's  feelings  have  a  screw  loose 
somewhere,  and,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  they're 
popular  with  nobody.  But  me  for  a  visit  to  Eli 
Yale,"  he  broke  off.  "Eli's  limited  flow  of 
language  has  a  restful  charm  sometimes." 

The  new  house  was  the  chief  topic  at  dinner, 
and  Olive  began  to  realize  what  this  amazing 
caprice  of  Steve's  might  portend.  Proctor  Hoyt 
made  it  concrete  for  her.  He  was  one  of  those 
men  who  see  everything  in  terms  of  dollars,  and 
in  Braisted  he  had  a  greedy  listener.  Steve 
loved  dollar-talk,  and  he  chuckled  happily  when 

[156] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

his  guest  assured  him  that  he  had  secured  the 
one  real  bargain  in  Washington  real  estate. 

"Six  months  hence  you  could  turn  it  over  for 
twice  the  purchase  price,"  Hoyt  predicted. 

Fern  took  alarm. 

"But  you  won't,  father?"  she  protested. 

"No;  he  won't,"  Hoyt  answered  for  him. 
"He's  too  shrewd.  In  the  back  of  his  head  he's 
thinking  of  the  unearned  increment — " 

"Hip,  hip!"  broke  in  S.  J.,  joyously.  "I 
know  what  that  highbrow  dope  means.  My 
room-mate  is  boning  pol.  econ.  But  I'll  bet  it's 
a  new  one  on  father." 

*  'Stevie!"  reproved  his  mother.  "Don'tberude." 

Braisted  took  her  up. 

"What  was  rude  about  that,  Olive?  I'm  not 
so  thin-skinned  as  to  begrudge  another  man  a 
compliment  at  my  expense.  I  haven't  had 
Hoyt's  advantages,"  he  added,  humbly.  "I 
never  hear  him  talk  without  envying  him  his 
education." 

Hoyt  navigated  the  awkward  turn  gracefully. 

"You  are  the  one  I  envy,"  he  said.  "Every- 
thing you  touch  turns  to  gold.  But,  as  I  started 
to  say,  you  see  clearly  that  that  property  must 
grow  more  valuable.  Look  at  your  neighbors! 
The  people  who  have  built  or  are  building  all 
around  you  are  not  the  common  garden  variety 
of  millionaires.  They're  multimillionaires.  More 
than  that,  they're  leaders  of  society,  the 
cream  of  New  York  and  Boston  and  Chicago 

[157] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

and  Cincinnati  and  everywhere  else.  They're 
the  people  who  are  making  Washington  the  social 
as  well  as  the  political  capital  of  the  United 
States.  That's  where  you've  located,  Mr.  Brai- 
sted.  You  have  moved  up  to  your  proper  place 
among  the  elect." 

Steve  tried  to  look  unconscious  of  his  grandeur, 
and  beckoned  the  waiter. 

" Bring  another  bottle  of  champagne,"  he 
ordered.  "Bring  two  bottles." 

Fern,  her  gray  eyes  aglow,  began  to  ply  this 
eloquent  prophet  of  Mammon  with  questions; 
and  he,  doubly  inspired  by  his  auditor  and  theme, 
launched  into  a  description  of  a  dinner  with 
which  one  of  these  lords  of  the  earth  had  aston- 
ished Washington. 

"They  served  it  on  gold  plate,"  he  said,  "and 
every  course  was  the  last  word  in  French  cuisine. 
The  flowers  came  from  Florida,  and  the  fruits 
from  California  by  special  express.  New  York 
furnished  the  orchestra — one  of  the  finest — and 
it  played  behind  a  great  screen  of  American 
Beauty  roses.  This  was  winter,  remember! 
The  place-cards  were  the  work  of  celebrated 
artists — each  a  little  masterpiece — and  with 
the  dessert  came  jewels  for  every  guest.  Then, 
as  a  climax,  they  opened  a  floral  globe  that  hung 
above  the  table  and  released  a  flock  of  song- 
birds. It  was  a  dinner  that  would  have  made 
even  an  imperial  Roman  stare.  It  cost  thou- 
sands, thousands!" 

[158] 


THE   WOMAN    OF   IT 

"Were  you  there?"  asked  S.  J.,  blandly. 

For  an  instant  Hoyt  lost  his  self-possession. 
Then  he  shook  his  head  and  smiled. 

"Only  in  spirit,"  he  admitted.  "I  read  about 
it  in  a  stray  newspaper  that  somehow  found  its 
way  up  to  my  camp  on  the  Yukon." 

"What  silly  remarks  you  make,  S.  J.,"  cried 
Fern,  impatiently. 

Olive  thought  otherwise.  To  her  S.  J.,  of  them 
all,  seemed  the  only  one  who  retained  something 
of  sanity  in  this  reign  of  unreason.  Yet  even 
he  was  willing  to  break  lifelong  ties.  His  air- 
castles  scorned  western  New  York  as  a  back- 
ground. Tuscarora  County  shrank  to  a  mere 
base  of  supplies,  a  springboard  for  the  leap  into 
the  higher  political  ether  which  he  urged  upon 
his  father,  and  which  Steve,  with  the  attitude 
of  one  who  knows  more  than  he  tells,  smilingly 
conceded  might  in  time  engage  his  serious 
thoughts. 

"But  I  have  something  bigger  on  hand  just 
no  w, "  he  hinted .  *  *  Something  that  makes  every- 
thing else  look  small.  Eh,  Hoyt?" 

Hoyt  nodded,  but  kept  his  lips  locked. 

"Can't  you  swing  this  deal  and  go  in  for  big 
politics,  too?"  questioned  S.  J. 

"I  dare  say  I  could,"  said  Braisted;  "but  I 
don't  intend  to  try.  Other  matters  must  take 
a  back  seat  till  I  put  this  thing  over." 

"Is  it  a  secret?" 

Braisted  exchanged  a  knowing  smile  with  Hoyt. 

[159] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Every  big  affair  is  put  through  on  the  quiet," 
he  said,  guardedly.  "Now  don't  neglect  your 
college  course  figuring  how  to  make  me  a  United 
States  Senator  or  a  foreign  ambassador,  my  boy," 
he  added,  laughingly.  "And  trust  me  not  to 
lose  touch  with  New  York  State  because  I've 
taken  a  flier  in  Washington  real  estate.  The 
house  in  Tuscarora  Falls  will  make  a  nice  change 
for  us  summers." 

Fern  made  a  wry  face. 

"I  can't  bear  Tuscarora  Falls,"  she  declared. 
"Need  we  go  back  this  summer?  I  should  think 
if  father  ran  out  now  and  then  to  look  after  the 
business  it  would  be  enough." 

Steve  was  secretly  of  the  same  opinion;  but 
he  felt  that  it  scarcely  became  him  to  admit  it. 

"It  will  be  time  enough  to  make  vacation 
plans  when  we  know  how  long  this  special  session 
of  the  new  Congress  is  likely  to  last,"  he  said. 
"There's  talk  that  we  may  be  kept  here  half  the 
summer." 

Fern  brightened  at  this  possibility. 

"That  would  make  Tuscarora  Falls  quite  out 
of  the  question,"  she  decided.  "We  would  stay 
here  with  you  till  June  and  then  go  to  the  sea- 
shore. Washington  is  impossible  after  June. 
Everybody  says  so." 

"Nice  prospect  you're  mapping  out  for  me!" 
exclaimed  her  father. 

"But  you  could  come  and  see  us  every  week- 
end. Couldn't  he,  mother?" 

[160] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"If  your  father  is  kept  here  I  shall  stay  with 
him,"  announced  Olive,  who,  even  in  the  do- 
mestic atmosphere  of  the  Walden,  had  divined 
some  of  the  pitfalls  spread  for  unattached  Con- 
gressmen. 

"Even  in  hot  weather?" 

"Certainly." 

"I  wouldn't  ask  it  of  you,  Ollie,"  assured  her 
husband. 

"You  wouldn't  have  to  ask  me,  Steve." 

Olive  left  the  table  in  low  spirits.  Fern's 
worldly  selfishness  and  Steve's  readiness  to  do 
without  her  were  not  the  immediate  cause. 
They  were  but  symptoms  of  ills,  long  since 
noted,  that  she  had  been  telling  herself  a  return 
to  normal  life  would  remedy.  Yet  now,  at  a 
stroke,  she  faced  the  probability  that  they  would 
never  go  back  to  the  old  order  of  things.  What, 
for  all  its  bravery  of  white  paint  and  green  blinds, 
did  the  Tuscarora  Falls  house  signify  beside 
Steve's  great  palace!  But  as  yet  her  mind 
framed  no  very  clear  conception  of  life  in  the 
new  house.  What  depressed  her  now  beyond 
everything  else  was  the  widening  gulf  between 
herself  and  those  she  held  most  dear.  Her  son, 
indeed,  seemed  at  heart  unchanged;  but  his 
tastes  chimed  with  his  father's  rather  than  with 
hers;  and  though,  in  rough  boy-fashion,  he  might 
sympathize  with  her  alarms,  she  knew  that  he 
could  scarcely  understand  them.  It  was  her 
daughter,  her  second  self,  who  should  see  things 

[161] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

with  her  eyes.  Yet,  of  them  all,  Fern  was  most 
perverse. 

It  cheered  her  a  little  to  see  Fern  kind  to  Ben 
Halsey,  who  dropped  in  after  dinner.  If  this 
idyl  had  not  lost  its  sweetness,  surely  the  blem- 
ishes which  pained  her  were  of  the  surface 
only.  But  she  assumed  too  much  from  Fern's 
graciousness.  In  her  present  mood  the  girl  had 
to  chatter  of  the  great  news  to  some  one,  and 
Steve  had  borne  Hoyt  away  for  a  tiresome 
conference. 

Yet  Ben,  poor  dupe,  was  content,  and  Olive, 
in  desperate  optimism,  took  elaborate  pains  that 
their  window-nook  in  the  red  parlor  should  be 
unmolested.  To  this  fond  artifice  S.  J.  gave 
unwitting  aid.  Seating  himself  at  the  piano,  he 
began  the  rag-time  favorite  of  the  hour,  and  his 
audience  soon  taxed  the  capacity  of  the  room. 
He  had  a  voice  of  uncommon  charm,  and  an 
entire  lack  of  self-consciousness  in  the  dramatic 
little  touches  with  which  he  illustrated  his 
meaning;  but  Olive  grew  restive  as  he  passed 
from  song  to  song.  She  rejoiced  in  the  seclusion 
that  numbers  gave  the  pair  in  the  window-seat; 
but  she  could  not  rid  herself  of  the  idea  that 
there  was  something  cheap  in  this  public  min- 
strelsy, and  was  relieved  when  her  son  finally 
admitted  that  he  had  sung  himself  out.  S.  J. 
was  by  no  means  at  the  end  of  his  social  re- 
sources, however.  With  the  facile  adaptability 
that  Steve  called  mixing,  he  forthwith  made 

[162] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

friends  with  those  who  chanced  nearest,  and 
vanished  from  his  mother's  view. 

With  his  disappearance  Olive  herself  became 
a  center  of  interest,  not  only  as  the  mother  of 
the  musical  prodigy  and  Fern,  whose  increasing 
prettiness  and  style  had  attracted  the  dining- 
room,  but  in  her  personal  capacity  as  future 
mistress  of  the  Colburn  house.  Painful  secrecy 
being  no  longer  necessary,  Mrs.  Estabrook  had 
spread  the  news  of  Steve  Braisted's  purchase 
with  the  thoroughness  of  a  town-crier.  Fore- 
most in  the  gratulatory  chorus,  properly,  was 
the  first  official  lady  of  the  Walden. 

"Perhaps  you  have  not  considered  the  matter 
yet,"  said  Mrs.  Pratt,  "but  you  will  reside  in 
what  is  essentially  a  Thursday  neighborhood." 

She  enunciated  every  word  so  distinctly  that 
Olive  felt  she  ought  to  understand;  but,  as  she 
had  thus  far  viewed  her  new  home  only  as  a 
species  of  nightmare,  Harriet  Pratt's  meaning 
eluded  her  utterly. 

"No,  it  hadn't  entered  my  head,"  she  admitted, 
hoping  soon  to  learn  what  it  was  that  she  had 
not  thought. 

A  thin-lipped  yet  gratified  smile  softened  the 
face  of  the  social  arbiter. 

"It  occurred  to  me  at  once,"  she  returned. 
"The  minute  I  heard  where  you  were  going — it 
was  Mrs.  Tully  who  mentioned  it  as  she  passed 
our  table  at  dinner — I  said,  'Mrs.  Braisted  is 
moving  into  a  Thursday  neighborhood.  She 

[163] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

ought,  by  all  means,  to  adopt  the  senatorial 
day." 

Light  penetrated  Olive's  darkness. 

"I'd  clean  forgotten  that  I  must  go  on  re- 
ceiving after  I  leave  the  Walden,"  she  confessed. 
"That  task  has  always  seemed  to  belong  with 
the  hotel." 

Mrs.  Pratt  solemnly  wagged  her  head. 

"How  much  more  does  it  belong  with  the  dig- 
nity of  a  noble  private  home!"  she  said.  "Had 
I  been  in  your  place,  it  would  have  been  my  first 
thought.  With  me  the  social  duties  are  para- 
mount to  everything  except  religion.  But,  as 
to  changing  your  day,  I  hope  you  will  see  fit 
to  conform  to  local  custom?" 

Olive  thought  the  matter  hardly  deserved  so 
much  ado;  but  she  good-naturedly  humored  the 
woman  in  her  hobby. 

"Of  course,  you  ought  to  know  what  is  ex- 
pected of  me,"  she  said. 

"In  all  modesty,  I  don't  think  there  are  many 
in  Washington  who  know  the  social  code  better." 

"Then  you  can  probably  tell  me  how  to  get 
rid  of  the  calling  nuisance.  Even  now  I  don't 
get  time  to  turn  around  comfortably,  and  when 
I  have  that  great  house  on  my  hands,  I  don't 
see  how  I  can  possibly  go  it  as  I  have  this  season- 
If  Lent  hadn't  eased  things  a  mite,  I  should 
certainly  have  collapsed." 

Her  auditor  stiffened. 

"Oh,  if  you  intend  dropping  the  people  who 

[164] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

have  tried  to  make  Washington  pleasant  for 
you — "  She  completed  her  meaning  with  a 
shrug  of  her  spare  shoulders. 

Olive  was  keenly  distressed. 

"Now  what  makes  you  think  I  would  do  such 
a  mean  trick  as  that?"  she  asked.  "It  isn't 
friends  I  want  to  be  rid  of!  Why,  the  Walden 
people  seem  like  home  folks  to  me  now.  Will 
it  make  it  any  easier  for  them  to  come  and  see 
me  if  I  take  Thursday  instead  of  Tuesday?" 

"  Unquestionably." 

"Then  I  will,  of  course." 

Mrs.  Pratt's  austerity  thawed  at  once. 

"A  wise  decision,"  she  said.  "These  un- 
written laws  have  always  a  sound  reason  at  core. 

She  did  not  expound  the  underlying  wisdom 
of  this  particular  law  which  Olive  had  promised 
to  observe,  but  old  Mrs.  Tully  furnished  a 
sufficient  commentary. 

"To  be  sure,  it's  more  convenient,"  she  smiled; 
"but  that  wasn't  the  main  point  with  Harriet 
Pratt.  She  was  pumping  you,  my  dear." 

"Why  should  she?" 

"  To  find  out  how  you  stand  toward  the  Walden 
crowd." 

"But  I  want  to  see  them  all.     I  told  her  so." 

"Then  you'll  be  more  popular  than  ever," 
prophesied  her  friend.  "Why,  there  are  peo- 
ple here  who  would  give  the  price  of  a  ticket  to 
grand  opera  for  a  peep  inside  your  new  art 
museum." 

[165] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

Olive's  face  grew  sober. 

"Museum — that's  just  the  name  for  it." 

The  old  lady  gave  her  cheery  laugh. 

"Look  on  the  funny  side  of  it,"  she  counseled. 
"There  surely  must  be  a  funny  side  to  keeping 
house  in  a  museum." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  QUIET  Easter  with  the  children!  Olive 
sorrowfully  put  that  dream  away.  The 
tame  pleasures  she  had  planned  were  not  for 
these  sophisticated  young  persons  who  had 
usurped  the  places  of  the  boy  and  girl  to  whom 
her  lightest  wish  had  once  been  law,  her  poor 
opinion  the  last  word  of  perfect  wisdom  in  all 
things.  Now,  by  some  topsyturvy  dispensa- 
tion, it  was  these  changelings  who  sat  in  the 
seat  of  judgment  and  with  godlike  confidence 
ruled,  not  their  own  lives  merely,  but  the  hither- 
to misguided  courses  of  their  parents. 

It  was  usually  Fern  who  served  as  mouth- 
piece for  these  mandates.  Her  brother,  having 
Eli  Yale's  diet  and  other  collegiate  interests 
on  his  mind,  could  not  give  more  than  a  casual 
attention  to  domestic  affairs;  but  his  offhand 
assent  to  his  sister's  dicta  carried  more  weight 
than  downright  argument  with  Steve,  who  over- 
ruled Olive's  objections  till  she  ceased  to  pro- 
test at  all  and  drifted  helplessly  with  the  stream. 
Because  Fern  had  seen  how  things  were  done  in 
Marshall  Blount's  great  house  on  Fifth  Avenue, 
it  was  properly  her  ideas  as  to  servants  and  the 

[167] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

general 'conduct  of  life  in  the  new  home  which 
should  prevail;  and  because  it  suited  Fern  best 
to  step  directly  from  Beauchamp  Manor  to  a 
setting  of  equal  dignity  when  Miss  Abercrombie 
should  presently  send  her  forth,  a  finished  social 
product,  it  was  decided  that  they  should  take 
early  possession.  That  this  might  mean  a  gift 
of  no  small  sum  to  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel, 
with  whom  they  had  arranged  for  the  special 
session,  Braisted  waved  aside  as  a  trifle.  Cher- 
ishing vast  dreams,  the  grand  manner  was  be- 
coming habitual. 

Of  Olive's  fond  holiday  projects,  one,  indeed, 
saw  fulfillment  of  a  sort.  The  national  shrine 
at  Mount  Vernon  had  long  beckoned;  but  near 
as  it  lay  she  had  not  yet  gone  to  it.  Thwarted  by 
the  calling  nuisance  in  the  mild  days  of  early 
winter,  she  had  latterly  postponed  the  visit 
that  she  might  share  it  with  the  children.  It 
had  loomed  a  splendid  climax  to  her  Eastertide 
programme,  and,  after  much  thumbing  of  guide- 
books and  earnest  meditation  upon  the  Father 
of  his  Country  and  his  times,  she  had  framed  a 
definite  notion  of  the  way  one  should  conduct 
such  a  pilgrimage.  This  theory  she  set  forth 
one  luncheon  hour,  when,  following  some  wear- 
ing days  of  shops,  tailors,  theaters,  restaurants, 
and  other  urban  excitements,  she  found  to  her 
delight  that  Mount  Vernon  was  not  included  in 
the  large  category  of  things  which  her  offspring 
pronounced  impossible. 

[168] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"I  never  took  to  the  idea  of  going  there  by 
trolley,"  she  explained.  "It  seems  a  kind  of 
desecration.  As  for  the  steamboat,  that  is 
almost  too  modern;  but  I'd  be  willing  to  come 
back  by  it,  for  it's  about  the  only  way  to  see 
the  river  Washington  loved." 

Braisted  suspended  a  stalk  of  asparagus  in 
air  while  he  stared  at  her. 

"You  do  beat  the  Dutch  for  queer  notions, 
Olive,"  he  declared.  "Don't  you  suppose  the 
General  would  have  used  the  trolley  or  the 
steamboat  if  there  had  been  any?" 

"But  there  wasn't,"  she  answered,  trium- 
phantly, "and  that's  why  I  want  to  follow  his 
steps  in  his  own  way." 

"That  was  probably  on  horseback,"  said 
Fern,  who  deemed  the  discussion  academic, 
but  was  willing  to  shed  light  from  her  abun- 
dance. "You  weren't  thinking  of  trying  that, 
surely?" 

Her  sally  drew  a  laugh  from  Braisted. 

"Let's  hope  not!"  he  exclaimed.  "Your 
mother  has  changed  some  in  the  waistline  since 
I  last  saw  her  on  a  horse." 

Olive  resolutely  took  no  offense. 

"It  would  be  queer  if  I  hadn't,"  she  said,  "for 
that  was  long  before  I  was  married.  But  I 
was  thinking  of  driving.  Washington  must 
have  had  to  use  a  carriage  sometimes." 

"At  any  rate,  Martha  did,"  consoled  S.  J. 
"The  double  chin  in  her  portraits  proves  it. 

12  [ 169  ] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Well,"  he  added,  exchanging  a  look  with  his 
father,  "shall  we  take  it  in?" 

"Want  my  company?"  asked  Braisted. 

Olive  looked  up  in  glad  surprise. 

"Of  course,  Steve.  I  didn't  suppose  that  you 
could  spare  the  time." 

He  glanced  again  at  S.  J.  with  a  glimmer  of 
a  smile. 

"It  may  not  take  as  long  as  you  think,"  he 
returned.  "Be  ready  at  two  o'clock  sharp.  I 
don't  expect  I  can  scare  up  an  eighteenth-cen- 
tury coach  at  such  short  notice;  but  I'll  find 
something  on  wheels  that  will  hold  the  Braisted 
family  and  cover  the  ground." 

Olive  spent  the  brief  interval  left  her  after 
luncheon  with  her  guide-book.  She  would  have 
liked  to  carry  the  volume  with  her;  but  she  had 
gathered  that  Fern,  who  now  counted  herself 
a  Washingtonian,  regarded  a  guide-book  as  a 
badge  of  disgrace.  She  thought  she  could  rely 
on  her  memory  for  the  mam  points,  however, 
and  even  looked  to  astonish  the  family  a  little 
by  her  knowledge  of  the  historic  way.  She 
doubted  if  they  knew  where  Nellie  Custis  was 
born,  or  General  Braddock  had  encamped,  or 
just  what  part  the  old  town  of  Alexandria  had 
played. 

S.  J.  ended  these  reflections  by  joining  her 
accompanied  by  Eli  Yale,  whose  forbidding  face 
still  remained  a  barrier  to  friendship. 

"But  he  moped  all  day  yesterday,"  he  argued, 

[170] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

as  she  shrank  from  the  dog's  affable  advances, 
and  suggested  that  he  be  left  behind.  "I'm 
dead  sure  some  of  the  colored  boys  have  been 
feeding  him  trash.  Don't  back  away,  mother. 
He  really  likes  you,  and  is  wiggling  all  over 
trying  to  say  so.  Shake  hands,  old  boy." 

Eli  civilly  put  up  his  paw;  but  Olive  saw  only 
the  shining  tusks  and  the  undershot  jaw. 

"I'm  afraid  of  him,"  she  owned.  "I  can't 
help  it." 

Fern  ridiculed  her  alarm,  and  fearlessly  pulled 
the  animal's  mutilated  ears. 

"You  shall  sit  by  me,  Eli,"  she  promised.  "I 
think  you're  sweet." 

Then  a  hall-boy  told  them  that  Braisted  was 
waiting,  and  Olive  went  forth.  Three  or  four 
vehicles  stood  before  the  hotel — a  cab  or  two, 
a  victoria,  and  a  huge  canary-colored  auto- 
mobile afflicted  with  a  gigantic  form  of  asthma. 
Steve,  half  enveloped  in  smoke,  seemed  as  deep- 
ly interested  as  the  chauffeur  in  the  creature's 
struggles;  but  it  did  not  occur  to  her  that  his 
concern  was  more  than  casual  till  S.  J.  called 
to  his  father,  who,  rising  now  to  his  full  height, 
revealed  a  motoring  costume  of  the  latest  pat- 
tern. 

"Here's  your  chariot,  Ollie,"  he  hailed  her. 
"It  isn't  quite  of  the  revolutionary  period,  but 
you'll  find  it  comfortable.  Seven  people  can 
ride  in  it  and  never  touch  elbows.  S.  J.  and  I 
have  been  doing  a  little  shopping  on  our  own 

[171] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

hook  this  week,  and  I'm  free  to  say  I  think  we 
struck  a  bargain." 

"You  don't  mean  it's  ours,"  cried  Fern. 

"I'll  show  you  the  receipt  if  you  doubt  my 
word.  Hop  in,  Olive,  and  take  that  corner 
seat.  Did  you  ever  snuggle  down  to  anything 
that  could  beat  it?  It's  a  pity  George  Wash- 
ington couldn't  have  lived  to  take  his  Mount 
Vernon  trips  this  way.  We  intended  to  let  you 
and  Fern  into  the  secret  this  afternoon,  anyhow, 
and  give  you  a  run  in  Virginia,  so  your  proposi- 
tion came  pat.  The  minute  you  said  Mount 
Vernon  I  decided  we'd  do  it  on  the  way.  Some- 
thing has  gone  wrong  with  the  ignition,  but 
we'll  have  that  fixed  in  a  jiffy.  Victor,  this  is 
Mrs.  Braisted,"  he  added,  as  the  chauffeur  came 
and  rummaged  some  mysterious  recess  for  a 
needed  tool. 

The  man  touched  his  cap  and  went  deftly 
about  his  work.  A  moment  later  the  monster 
left  off  coughing,  and  settled  down  to  a  regular 
rhythmic  throb,  the  chauffeur  climbed  into  his 
seat,  touched  some  releasing  lever,  and  Olive 
plunged  forward  on  her  pilgrimage. 

For  some  little  time  thereafter  she  quite  for- 
got the  historical  reflections  which  should  edify 
the  way.  Taken  unawares  by  the  sudden  start, 
the  united  claims  of  a  disordered  bonnet  and 
an  aching  neck  absorbed  her  mind  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  everything  else  except  the  fact  that 
Eli  Yale,  scorning  the  place  assigned  him  on 

[172] 


THE   WOMAN    OF   IT 

the  floor,  did  his  utmost  to  drape  himself  over 
her  lap.  By  and  by,  her  injuries  nursed  and 
Eli  subdued,  she  opened  her  eyes  to  the  wider 
impressions  of  the  journey,  which  now  struck 
her  as  a  chain  of  hairbreadth  escapes  from  dis- 
aster. Nursemaids  with  perambulators,  grocer- 
boys  with  carts,  negro  children  playing  marbles, 
cats  stalking  the  sparrows,  dogs  in  hordes,  men 
and  women  of  every  age  and  station,  all  seemed 
bent  on  a  helter-skelter  game  with  Death  in 
the  teeth  of  their  honking  advance.  Or  again, 
it  was  themselves,  the  foolhardy  aggressors,  who 
faced  peril  of  life  or  limb.  Repeatedly  some 
looming  van  or  street-car  or  solid  wall  threat- 
ened to  end  their  folly;  but  always  the  madman 
at  the  wheel  swerved  miraculously  by  and  on 
toward  new  dangers. 

Presently,  the  asphalt  left  behind,  she  heard, 
as  in  a  dream,  Steve  say  that  now  there  was  no 
reason  why  they  should  crawl,  and  the  demon 
mechanism  leaped  forward  at  wilder  speed  before 
the  last  word  left  his  lips.  Then,  for  an  interval, 
they  whirled  in  the  sandstorm  left  by  another 
car;  but,  the  road  widening,  they  passed  the 
upstarts  and  smothered  them  with  their  flying 
wake  of  red  Virginia  soil.  A  kind  of  brute 
triumph  in  the  superior  force  which  literally 
made  their  enemy  bite  the  dust  stirred  them  all; 
and  the  bulldog,  as  if  he,  too,  sensed  it,  sprang 
up  with  a  deep-throated  growl  and  had  to  be 
cuffed  into  silence.  Then,  shortly,  the  car  came 

[173] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

to  a  stop,  and  Steve  called,  "All  out  for  Mount 
Vernon." 

Olive  thought  him  joking  and  kept  her  seat 
while  the  others  dismounted. 

"But  we're  not  there!"  she  cried,  as  they 
waited  for  her  to  follow.  "We  can't  be!" 

Braisted  laid  a  proud  hand  on  his  new  toy. 

"You'd  hardly  think  it,  would  you?  But 
Victor  says  we'll  do  better  yet." 

With  a  rush  the  historic  landmarks  trooped 
into  recollection. 

"But  the  Yorktown  road,  and  the  Custis 
House,  and  Alexandria,  where  so  much  happened ! 
We  surely  can't  have  passed  Alexandria?" 

"That  was  where  Eli  had  his  ears  boxed," 
S.  J.  informed  her.  "But  let's  hustle  along  for 
a  look  at  the  house.  We've  got  to  cover  a  good- 
sized  slice  of  the  Old  Dominion  before  dinner." 

Hustle  was  the  word.  The  noble  view  from 
the  piazza;  the  homely  details  of  colonial  house- 
keeping in  the  kitchen,  with  its  great  fireplace 
and  obsolete  crane;  the  garden,  with  its  box- 
wood hedges  and  old-time  fragrance;  the  ponder- 
ous key  of  the  Bastille — Lafayette's  gift — that 
greeted  one  in  the  hall;  Washington's  own  flute 
lying  on  Nellie  Custis's  harpsichord  in  the  music- 
room;  the  low-ceiled  south  bedroom,  furnished 
as  he  knew  it,  where  the  master  of  the  house 
breathed  his  last — these  and  countless  other 
things,  of  which  Olive  caught  frantic  glimpses, 
had  each  its  story  over  which  she  would  fain 

[174] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

linger;  but  Steve,  haunted  by  the  miles  which, 
as  a  self-respecting  motorist,  he  must  cover 
before  night,  did  his  sight-seeing  watch  in  hand, 
and  kept  her  close  upon  the  heels  of  the  pace- 
making  second  generation,  who,  finding  few  words 
save  "stuffy"  and  "queer"  to  voice  their  im- 
pressions, raced  up-stairs  and  down,  galloped 
from  garden  to  tomb,  and  were  heading  full  tilt 
for  the  automobile  when  Fern  spied  a  friend  at 
the  top  of  the  slope. 

"Why,  it's  Philippa!"  she  cried,  waving  to  the 
girl,  who  flourished  a  riding-crop  in  return  and 
awaited  their  approach. 

Braisted,  who  had  never  met  her,  eyed  Mar- 
shall Blount's  daughter  with  the  keenest  in- 
terest. 

"Slim  as  a  young  Indian,"  he  commented. 
"Why  isn't  she  in  New  York  for  her  vacation, 
Fern?" 

"Because  her  father  is  in  Washington." 

"Blount  in  Washington!  The  papers  have 
him  playing  golf  at  Lakewood." 

"The  papers  seldom  know  where  he  really 
is,"  explained  Fern,  importantly.  "Philippa 
told  me  all  about  it.  He  often  uses  other  names 
to  get  privacy.  They  even  have  to  cross  the 
ocean  incognito." 

"Think  of  that  now!"  Steve's  eyes  narrowed. 
"That  sort  of  straw  shows  how  the  wind  blows. 
Did  she  say  how  long  he's  to  be  in  town  and 
where  he's  staying?" 

[175] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

His  questions  were  lost  amid  the  sound  and 
fury  of  school-girl  greetings.  They  kissed  as  if 
they  had  not  met  in  years,  and  Braisted,  the 
introductions  over,  stood  swelling  with  pride 
that  such  tender  intimacy  should  exist  between 
his  child  and  a  daughter  of  Marshall  Blount. 
What  a  trump  this  little  girl  of  his  was! 

"If  you'd  only  mentioned  Mount  Vernon 
when  I  saw  you  downtown  yesterday,"  Fern 
was  saying,  "we  could  have  come  together. 
Come  to  think  of  it,  though,  I  knew  nothing 
about  our  new  auto  then." 

"We'd  have  been  proud  to  have  you  along, 
Miss  Blount,"  assured  Steve,  eagerly.  "It's 
one  of  the  best  machines  money  can  buy." 

Philippa  smilingly  shook  her  head. 

"Even  an  aeroplane  couldn't  have  tempted 
me  to-day,"  she  said.  "I  am  carrying  out  a  plan 
that  I  have  saved  expressly  for  this  vacation 
when  I  knew  the  country  would  be  looking  its 
best.  And  I've  had  a  beautiful  time!" 

"By  your  lonesome!"  exclaimed  S.  J. 

His  tone  made  her  laugh. 

"By  myself,  certainly;  but  I  haven't  been 
lonesome.  You  see,  I  didn't  want  to  do  Mount 
Vernon  in  an  up-to-date  way.  It  is  one  of  the 
few  things  around  Washington  that  doesn't  look 
brand-new,  and  I  thought  I'd  try  and  recapture 
some  of  the  old-time  flavor  by  coming  on  horse- 
back and  dawdling  along  the  way  just  as  I 
pleased." 

[176] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"Why,  that  was  my  wife's  idea!"  said  Braisted, 
now  perceiving  strange  beauties  in  Olive's  plan. 

"Was  it?"  She  turned,  eagerly.  "Then  you 
would  have  enjoyed  my  day,  Mrs.  Braisted. 
I've  been  since  morning  getting  here,  and  there's 
nothing  I've  missed  on  the  way.  Why,  as  I  sat 
in  Washington's  pew  in  the  old  church  back 
there  in  Alexandria,  I  even  saw  a  baby  baptized, 
who,  the  sexton  said,  was  a  far-away  relation  of 
the  General  himself!  That  mite  did  more  than 
anything  else  to  make  the  past  real  to  me. 
After  that  I  poked  about  the  dear  little  town  to 
my  heart's  content  and  ended  by  lunching  at 
the  old  hotel  where  Washington  had  his  head- 
quarters. Now  I'm  here,  and  here  I  mean  to 
stop  till  they  put  me  off  the  grounds." 

Olive  sighed  enviously. 

"I  wish  I  could,"  she  said.  "We've  really 
seen  nothing." 

"Then  why  don't  you  stay  with  me,  Mrs. 
Braisted?  We'll  see  everything  from  the  door- 
mat to  the  roof." 

Thus  fanned,  the  spirit  of  revolt  smoldering 
in  Olive's  breast  flamed  forth. 

"Rush  over  as  much  of  the  United  States  as 
you  want  to  before  dinner,"  she  told  her  aston- 
ished family.  "I'm  going  back  by  boat." 


CHAPTER  XV 

STILL  more  unexpected  was  the  outcome  of 
that  afternoon  with  the  daughter  of  mil- 
lions. As  Olive  at  last  turned  her  steps  toward 
the  boat-landing,  the  girl  drew  her  to  a  seat 
overlooking  the  quiet  river,  and  said  that  she 
wanted  advice. 

"You!"  smiled  Olive.  "What  help  could  a 
plain  body  like  me  be  to  you?" 

"I  hope  I'm  a  plain  body,  too,"  said  Philippa. 
"At  least  I  try  to  be.  But  for  the  advice,  while 
it  isn't  about  me,  it's  for  me.  I  want  a  certain 
thing,  and  you  must  decide  whether  it  is  right 
for  me  to  have  it." 

"Don't  ask  me  to  do  that.  I  make  too  sad 
a  mess  of  my  own  affairs  to  want  to  run  other 
folks'." 

"But  this  is  your  affair,  too.  You  are  the 
only  one  who  can  decide.  I'd  like  to  take  Fern 
away  with  me  when  school  closes." 

"Take  her  away!" 

"To  California,  I  mean.  Father  has  to  in- 
spect one  of  the  Western  roads  in  which  he 
is  interested.  Possibly  we'll  run  up  to  Alaska, 
too.  Father  isn't  sure  yet;  but,  at  any  rate, 

[178] 


THE    WOMAN   OF    IT 

it  means  a  trip  of  several  weeks,  and  he  has 
asked  me  to  bring  Fern  along.  I've  said  noth- 
ing to  her  about  it.  Perhaps  I  sha'n't  mention 
it  at  all.  It  depends  altogether  on  you." 

Olive  caught  her  breath. 

"I  can't  let  her  go,"  she  protested.  "I  just 
can't." 

"You'd  like  to  have  her  see  California, 
wouldn't  you?" 

"Yes,  sometime;  but  not  now.  You  mustn't 
think  I'm  ungrateful — " 

"There  is  no  question  of  gratitude.  My 
father  is  frankly  selfish  about  it.  Fern  amused 
him  at  Christmastime.  He  is  a  jaded  man  to 
whom  everything  is  an  old  story.  He  has  sucked 
his  orange  dry.  But  he  can  whip  up  his  early 
sensations  at  times  if  there  is  some  one  along 
with  a  fresh  pair  of  eyes.  Fern  would  work  her 
passage,  you  see." 

Her  blunt  explanation  left  Olive  staring.  So 
this  was  what  life  meant  to  Marshall  Blount! 
The  newspapers  had  gossiped  endlessly  of  the 
man,  and  chronicled  with  untiring  zest  that  all 
his  money  had  not  availed  to  cure  his  deafness 
or  rid  him  of  dyspepsia;  but  this  pitiful  detail 
from  his  own  child's  lips  gave  a  sinister  touch 
to  the  portrait.  A  fierce  unreasoning  instinct 
to  shield  her  own  from  this  evil  blight  swept 
over  her  and  hardened  her  heart  against  this 
strange  girl,  who,  open-eyed,  would  for  her 
own  pleasure  expose  Fern  to  contamination. 

[179] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"Isn't  my  girl's  head  turned  already?"  she 
broke  out,  passionately.  "The  old  ways  aren't 
good  enough  for  her  now.  Her  mother  can't 
do  or  say  anything  right.  I've  cried  over  it; 
I've  prayed  over  it;  I've  done  my  best  to  scour 
off  the  country  rust  and  see  things  according 
to  her  light;  but  it's  no  use.  We're  drifting 
apart  every  day,  and  now  you're  asking  me  to 
send  her  three  thousand  miles  farther  off  with 
people — '  She  checked  herself  in  sudden  reali- 
zation of  the  lengths  whither  she  was  being 
hurried. 

"With  people  who,  you  believe,  would  make 
her  worse?" 

Olive  dabbed  her  eyes  with  her  handkerchief. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  entreated.  "Something 
broke — I  had  to  speak  out.  I  don't  know  what 
you'll  think  of  me." 

"Far  better  than  you  think  of  us,"  said  the 
girl,  with  a  faint  smile.  "It's  a  curious  experi- 
ence to  have  some  one  distrust  me." 

Olive's  hands  went  out  to  her. 

"I'd  have  a  black  heart  not  to  trust  you, 
dearie.  This  very  afternoon  ought  to  have 
made  me  hold  my  tongue.  Money  hasn't 
spoiled  you." 

Philippa  flushed  under  her  dark  skin. 

"You  couldn't  say  a  thing  I'd  rather  hear. 
But,  if  you  really  mean  it,  why  not  let  Fern 
come  with  us  this  summer?  She'll  have  a 
tremendous  object-lesson." 

[180] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand." 

"I  mean  just  this.  She  still  thinks  money 
can  do  anything.  The  thing  she  needs  most  is 
to  find  out  what  it  can't  buy,  and  I  don't  know 
any  better  way  than  to  study  my  family." 

"It  didn't  cure  her  at  Christmas,"  said  Olive, 
after  a  moment's  thought.  "It  made  her  worse." 

"Yes;  I  know.  That's  another  reason  for 
trying  again." 

"Do  you  mean  you  tried  then?" 

The  girl  nodded. 

"But  there  wasn't  time,"  she  said.  "She 
saw  only  enough  to  dazzle  her.  I'd  like  to 
sicken  and  disgust  her,  make  her  hate  Mammon- 
worship  as  I  hate  it."  And  with  a  swift  cut 
of  her  riding-crop  Marshall  Blount's  daughter 
beheaded  a  dandelion  as  if  its  gold  symbolized 
the  false  god  with  whom  her  spirit  was  at  war. 
Then,  meeting  her  companion's  puzzled  gaze, 
she  broke  into  wholesome  laughter.  "Do  you 
think  I'm  queer?"  she  asked.  "My  people  stare 
at  me  like  that  sometimes.  But  I  don't  often 
storm.  It's  a  waste  of  force.  The  best  weapon 
is  ridicule,  I've  found.  Of  course,  that's  a  trite 
discovery;  but  it  seemed  wonderfully  fresh  to 
me  when  I  first  hit  on  it.  But  what  are  you 
thinking  about  me?" 
,"I  was  trying  to  guess  your  age." 

"I  am  nineteen.     Don't  I  look  it?" 

"No;  but  just  now  you  seem  nineteen  and 
as  many  years  more." 

1181] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"Yes,"  she  assented,  gravely.  "I  was  born 
old.  That  is  some  people's  beastly  luck.  My 
sister  was  born  young,  like  Fern,  and  she's 
stayed  young.  She'll  never  grow  up,  in  fact. 
It  almost  seems  as  if  the  money  had  stunted 
her  brain.  She's  older  than  I  by  fifteen  years, 
and  she  knew,  as  I  don't  except  by  hearsay, 
what  life  was  like  with  us  before  the  golden 
flood.  I  don't  mean  that,  as  a  family,  we  were 
ever  poor;  father  fought  his  battle  with  poverty 
as  a  boy;  but  we  were  simple,  I'm  told,  and  I 
imagine  happy.  The  golden  flood!"  she  re- 
peated. "It's  only  that  by  poetic  license.  In 
reality  it's  black,  a  flood  of  pitch,  and  you  know, 
'He  that  toucheth  pitch  shall  be  defiled!'  Such 
things  as  have  come  out  of  that  asphalt  lake 
down  near  the  equator!  Lies,  dishonor,  misery, 
bloodshed,  crime — God  knows  what  not !  Some- 
times I  think — but  this  can't  interest  you.  As 
I  was  saying,  the  money  ruined  Maud.  We 
haven't  any  mother,  you  know,  and  Maud's 
governesses  were  never  the  right  sort.  She  was 
all  for  show  and  glitter,  and  she  got  everything 
on  that  principle  from  her  hat-pins  to  her  hus- 
band. Naturally  it  didn't  work  well  in  picking 
a  husband,  and  in  the  end  she  had  to  divorce 
him.  Wouldn't  you  think  that  would  have 
cured  her?" 

"Indeed  I  should,  poor  girl!" 

"It  didn't.  The  poison  is  in  her  blood.  I 
don't  mean  that  she  still  cares  for  that  man — 

1182] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

she  couldn't;  but  she  goes  on  caring  for  the 
cheap  things  of  life.  But  I  won't  talk  about  her 
any  more.  I  can't  make  her  over.  I  can  only 
try  to  avoid  her  blunders." 

"It's  safe  to  say  you  will  never  fall  into  her 
mistake  about  a  husband,  my  dear." 

The  warm  color  poured  back  into  the  girl's 
face. 

"No,"  she  said,  slowly.  "I'll  marry  a  real 
man  or  none." 

Afterward  Olive  wondered  at  herself  that  she 
had  not  read  the  meaning  of  that  telltale  flush; 
but  at  the  moment  she  was  too  intent  on  Fern's 
affairs  to  reflect  that  this  girl  without  a  mother 
might  be  groping  toward  happiness  along  a 
lonely  and  difficult  way. 

The  boat  whistled  a  long  note  of  warning,  and 
she  rose  to  go. 

"Your  plan  may  be  the  right  one,"  she  said, 
"but  I  can't  decide  now.  Mayn't  I  think  it 
over?" 

"Of  course.  And,  if  you  choose,  you  need  not 
decide  till  the  last  minute.  We  shall  have  the 
private  car  whether  Fern  comes  with  us  or  not. 
That  sounds  plutocratic  enough,  doesn't  it? 
Father  is  one  of  the  directors  of  the  line,  and 
they  toady  to  us  all  as  if  we  were  of  royal  blood. 
It  makes  me  ashamed  to  have  a  fellow  being 
fawn  and  crawl  to  lick  my  hand.  It  seems  an 
insult  to  humanity." 

She   stood   erect   and   confident   against   her 

[183] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

leafy  background  as  she  waved  a  last  good-by 
from  the  turn  of  the  path,  a  being  of  flame-like 
spirit  and  vision-seeing  eyes  who  dominated 
Olive's  thoughts  during  the  tranquil  journey 
home  by  river.  Philippa's  invitation  she  thrust 
away  into  a  far  corner  of  her  mind,  trusting  with 
blind  optimism  that  in  some  simpler  fashion  all 
would  work  out  for  the  best.  The  salient,  in- 
spiring fact  was  this  girl's  spiritual  isolation 
amid  her  flesh  and  blood.  It  was  a  heartening 
thing  to  feel  that  one  who  was  neither  rustic 
nor  middle-aged  shared  her  protest.  If  this 
favorite  of  fortune,  who  from  the  cradle  had 
known  the  meaning  of  vast  wealth,  believed  it 
a  curse,  then  she  did  well  to  question  whither 
she  and  hers  were  bound.  Money  and  still 
more  money  was  the  undoubted  object  of  Steve's 
mysterious  commerce  with  Proctor  Hoyt.  Had 
he  not  declared  that  this  man  would  be  worth 
his  weight  in  gold  to  him? 

Who  was  he?  What  precious  secret  did  he 
possess?  The  situation  now  bristled  with  ques- 
tions that  had  merely  slumbered  before.  Then, 
hard  on  her  awakening  distrust,  as  if  he  divined 
her  antipathy  and  had  come  to  justify  himself, 
appeared  the  man  himself.  A  half-superstitious 
shiver  crisped  her  flesh  as  the  big  yellow  car 
clamored  up  to  the  hotel  just  as  she  arrived, 
and  first  of  all  disgorged  Proctor  Hoyt. 

"We  nearly  ran  Hoyt  down  as  we  crossed 
F  Street,"  called  Braisted,  facetiously.  "The 

[184] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

least  I  could  do  was  to  bring  him  home  to  din- 
ner." 

"You  shouldn't  make  a  joke  of  it,  father," 
protested  Fern.  "It  was  really  a  close  call." 

Hoyt  saluted  Olive,  and  with  too  elaborate 
courtesy  helped  his  champion  alight. 

"It  was  all  my  own  fault,"  he  said;  "I  had 
no  business  to  be  building  air-castles  on  that 
crowded  street-crossing." 

His  words  were  more  for  Fern  than  the  others, 
and  he  contrived  to  invest  his  confession  of 
day-dreaming  with  romantic  interest.  The  girl's 
cheek  went  a  deeper  pink,  and  her  manner  took 
on  unconscious  coquetry. 

"But  you're  limping,"  she  cried.  "We  did 
strike  you!" 

"I  merely  turned  my  ankle,  that's  all." 

"You  say  that  to  spare  our  feelings.  I'm  so 
sorry." 

S.  J.'s  cheery  face  puckered  into  a  comical 
burlesque  of  her  solicitude. 

"I've  some  prime  liniment  that  the  vet  gave 
me  for  Eli,"  he  offered. 

Fern  winced  and  flashed  a  look  of  withering 
rebuke;  but  Braisted  gave  vent  to  a  ringing 
laugh  that  cleared  the  atmosphere  and  even 
worked  a  curative  spell.  Hoyt's  limp  was  less 
pronounced,  Olive  noticed,  as  they  entered  the 
house.  Had  it  been  a  pretense  to  work  upon 
Fern's  sympathies,  she  wondered?  An  intui- 
tion, an  instinct,  something  quite  outside  rea- 

13  1 185  ] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

son,  warned  her  that  the  whole  fiber  of  this  man 
was  shot  with  deceit,  and  she  feared  him.  But 
this  fear  no  longer  centered  upon  his  dealing 
with  Steve;  whatever  it  was,  that  business  sug- 
gested nothing  malign.  It  was  Fern  that  mat- 
tered now — Fern  flattered,  excited,  attracted 
by  this  adventurer,  even  as  that  too  kind  mani- 
curist she  had  seen  in  his  arms.  Then,  as  if 
they  were  all  puppets  in  the  hands  of  an  unseen 
dramatist,  chance  threw  Ben  Halsey  in  their 
way,  and,  as  the  absorbed  girl  passed  him 
like  a  stranger,  Olive  fancied  she  saw  in  his 
startled  eyes  a  reflection  of  her  own  acute  dis- 
may. 

As  she  dressed  for  dinner  she  tried  to  subordi- 
nate feeling  to  reason  and  calmly  ask  herself 
of  what  she  stood  in  dread.  After  all,  nothing 
had  happened.  Was  her  child  a  fool  that  she 
should  fancy  her  infatuated  with  a  man  she 
scarcely  knew? 

Two  minutes  with  Fern  sufficed  to  revive  all 
her  fears.  Entering  her  room  without  knocking, 
she  surprised  the  girl  in  absorbed  self-analysis 
before  the  mirror. 

"I  sha'n't  motor  often  if  my  face  is  always 
going  to  flush  like  this,"  she  declared.  "I  look 
a  fright  to-night." 

"Yes,"  said  her  mother,  judiciously,  "your 
cheeks  are  too  red." 

"Red!"  Fern  took  another  long  look.  "I 
don't  know  that  I'd  call  them  red,  exactly;  but 

[186] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

they  are  certainly  pinker  than  usual.  And 
aren't  my  eyes  bright?" 

They  undoubtedly  were.  The  excitement  that 
dyed  her  cheek  had  lent  a  starry  softness  to  her 
eyes  that  Olive  had  not  seen  there  since  the 
night  she  avowed  her  adamantine  purpose  to 
marry  Ben  Halsey. 

"Don't  gaze  at  yourself  like  that,"  she  broke 
out,  harshly.  "It  looks  silly.  And  why  under 
the  sun  did  you  put  on  that  frock?" 

Fern  started  at  her  sudden  severity. 

"Why,  mother,  what's  come  over  you?"  she 
exclaimed.  "Don't  you  want  me  to  look  nice?" 

"I  don't  want  you  to  look  overdressed.  Here 
at  the  Walden  people  don't  get  themselves  up  in 
low-neck  gowns  for  an  ordinary  dinner." 

The  girl  flicked  life  into  a  dejected  ruffle. 

"But  we  have  a  guest." 

"What  of  it?  You're  not  prinking  for  that 
Proctor  Hoyt's  benefit,  I  hope?  He's  just  a 
business  friend  of  your  father." 

"Mr.  Hoyt  doesn't  seem  like  a  business  man. 
He  has  imagination,  the  creative  touch,  just  as 
Mrs.  Estabrook  says." 

Olive  doubted  her  ears. 

"Who?"  she  demanded. 

"Mrs.  Estabrook.  It  was  through  her  that 
I  have  come  really  to  know  him." 

"You've  been  seeing  him  at  other  places  be- 
sides the  Walden?" 

"Oh,    often,"    said    Fern,    candidly.     "And 

[187] 


THE   WOMAN   OF   IT 

even  before  I  met  him  at  the  theater  that  night 
I  had  seen  him  and  wondered  who  he  was.  Most 
of  the  girls  wondered,  for  that  matter.  He's  so 
distinguished!  He  used  to  take  walks  by  the 
school,  you  see.  One  day,  when  I  was  playing 
tennis  in  the  court  nearest  the  street,  who  should 
come  along  with  him  but  Mrs.  Estabrook.  Since 
then  I've  run  across  him  several  times." 

Olive  groped  blindly  in  the  forest  of  doubts 
thus  suddenly  disclosed.  Why  had  not  Ada 
Estabrook,  who  chattered  of  everything,  men- 
tioned this  meeting?  Why,  for  that  matter, 
were  she  and  Hoyt  strolling  the  city's  outskirts? 
Above  everything,  what  did  all  this  signify  to 
Fern? 

She  had  a  partial  answer  soon  when  Steve 
put  his  head  in  at  the  door  to  announce  that 
Hoyt  had  received  an  urgent  telephone  message 
and  could  not  dine  with  them  after  all.  Always 
flower-like  in  her  suggestion,  the  girl  seemed  now 
to  her  mother's  anxious  eyes  to  press  the  simile 
still  further  and  literally  wilt  with  disappoint- 
ment. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THAT  night  Olive  told  her  husband  of 
PhiKppa  Blount's  invitation.  Of  the  girl's 
avowed  motive  or  her  own  she  said  nothing. 

"Of  course  Fern  must  go,"  she  ended. 

"Go!"  he  ejaculated.  "I'd  like  to  see  her 
turn  such  a  chance  down.  You  clinched  the 
matter  on  the  spot,  I  hope?" 

"No,"  she  said,  evasively.  "I  didn't  jump 
at  it." 

Braisted  was  silent  a  moment. 

"On  second  thought  I  believe  you  were  right, 
Olive.  I  hear  it's  just  as  well  not  to  appear  too 
eager  with  Marshall  Blount.  Are  you  sure  she 
said  the  invitation  was  his  idea?" 

"Oh  yes.  She  told  me  that  he  took  a  fancy 
to  Fern." 

"Good!"  he  chuckled,  beginning  to  walk 
about  the  room.  "It  may  spread  to  her  rela- 
tions." 

She  watched  him  with  a  fresh  doubt  upper- 
most. 

"Steve,"  she  demanded,  abruptly,  "what  do 
you  want  of  Marshall  Blount?" 

He  gave  her  a  quick  side  glance. 

[189] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"Who  says  I  want  anything  of  him?" 

"I  judge  by  your  actions." 

He  resumed  his  pacing. 

"Well?"  he  said,  over  his  shoulder. 

"When  you  found  out  that  it  was  his  home 
where  Fern  was  asked  for  Christmas  you  gave 
me  no  peace  till  I  made  her  accept." 

"Anybody  would  catch  at  such  a  bid.  Blount 
is  a  big  man.  Then,  you'll  remember,  there  was 
that  nonsense  about  young  Halsey." 

"That  needn't  trouble  you  now,  Steve." 

"It  doesn't.  Fern  never  goes  out  of  her  way 
to  speak  to  him  that  I  can  see.  Have  you 
noticed  her  with  him  at  all?" 

"I  gave  them  a  chance  to  talk  the  night  Fern 
came,"  she  admitted,  coloring  a  little,  "but 
that's  practically  all  she  has  seen  of  him.  Her 
mind  is  full  of  other  things,  I  guess.  She  passed 
him  in  the  hall  to-night,  as  if  she  didn't  know 
he  was  there." 

The  man  gave  a  grunt  of  satisfaction. 

"We  handled  her  case  just  the  right  way," 
he  said.  "By  the  time  she  comes  back  she'll 
have  forgotten  she  ever  had  a  love  affair.  Prob- 
ably it  looks  silly  to  her  already.  How  long 
will  the  Blounts  be  gone,  by  the  way?" 

"For  several  weeks,  I  gathered." 

Her  reply  cast  him  into  a  brown-study. 

"How  would  you  like  to  take  a  flying  trip 
West?"  he  asked,  suddenly.  "Say  in  July?" 

She  looked  up  blankly. 

[190] 


THE   WOMAN   OP   IT 

"Have  you  gone  crazy,  Steve?" 

"What  makes  you  think  it?" 

"Because  you  act  so.  You're  like  a  child 
with  too  many  toys.  You  drop  your  new  turn- 
out for  an  automobile;  you  build  a  house  out 
home  and  run  away  from  it;  you  buy  a  bigger 
one  here,  and  then,  before  you  even  move  in, 
go  planning  to  run  away  from  that,  too." 

"Oh,  I  reckon  we'll  use  the  whole  outfit,"  he 
laughed.  "As  for  houses,  I  think  we  can  stand 
two.  Marshall  Blount  must  own  at  least  six. 
But  to  come  back  to  that  trip,  don't  you  want 
to  see  Fern?  It's  going  to  be  lonesome  without 
her  in  the  new  place." 

"You  don't  need  to  tell  me  that.  Even  if  we 
could  all  be  together,  it  would  still  be  lonesome 
in  that  great  house." 

"You'll  sing  another  tune  when  you've  lived 
in  it  a  week.  But  you  don't  have  to  stick  there 
all  summer.  Why  not  run  out  West  and  see 
Fern?" 

She  gave  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"Oh,  don't  treat  me  as  if  I  were  half-witted," 
she  retorted.  "If  that  was  your  only  reason 
for  going  you  would  tell  Fern  to  stay  home. 
What  you  really  want  is  to  know  Marshall 
Blount." 

"Well,  then,  I  do,"  he  admitted.  "As  for 
meeting  him,  I  could  probably  fix  that  up  here 
in  Washington  through  Ben;  but  I'd  rather 
have  it  come  about  in  another  way.  It  ought 

[191] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

to  be  a  social  meeting  if  I'm  to  make  a  friend 
of  him." 

"A  friend!" 

"Yes,  a  friend.  After  that — but  I  can't  go 
into  it  just  yet.  Our  plans  aren't  ripe?" 

"Our  plans!  Do  you  mean  yours  and  Proctor 
Hoyt's?" 

Braisted  drew  back  into  his  accustomed  shell. 

"Now  you  are  getting  curious." 

"Haven't  I  some  reason  to  be  curious,  I'd  like 
to  ask?  I  don't  like  mysteries  between  you  and 
me,  Steve.  It  wasn't  our  old  way.  I  used  to 
tell  you  everything,  and  you  were  as  open  and 
above  board  with  me." 

"You'll  know  what's  what  in  good  time, 
Olive,"  he  put  her  off  with  a  laugh.  "But  if 
it's  any  satisfaction  to  you  to  hear  that  this 
is  part  of  the  business  with  Hoyt,  why,  there 
you  are." 

"And  you  want  to  interest  Marshall  Blount, 
get  him  to  put  money  into  it?" 

Vexed  by  her  insistence,  he  wheeled  on  her 
with  a  sharp  change  of  manner. 

"Now  look  here,"  he  said,  "I've  passed  my 
word  that  I  would  keep  this  thing  quiet,  and  I 
intend  to  do  it.  No  amount  of  pumping  will 
get  it  out  of  me,  and  you  might  as  well  save  your 
strength.  I'm  not  playing  marbles!  As  I  told 
you  before,  it's  a  whopping  big  deal  with  a  pros- 
pect of  big  returns." 

Tears  welled  to  her  eyes  at  his  roughness. 

[192] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"Steve,  Steve!"  she  pleaded.  "Aren't  we 
rich  enough  now?" 

"Not  by  modern  standards." 

"Then  let  us  go  back  to  old-fashioned  stand- 
ards." 

"I  wouldn't  change  back  under  any  considera- 
tion. If  I  am  smart  enough  to  do  it,  why  should 
not  I  make  my  pile  as  well  as  Marshall  Blount?" 

"Oh,  don't — don't  envy  that  miserable  man!" 

"Why  do  you  call  him  that?" 

"Because  life  is  just  ashes  and  wormwood  to 
him.  His  own  daughter  told  me  so.  'He  has 
sucked  his  orange  dry' — those  were  her  very 
words." 

"The  Blount  girl  told  you  that?" 

"Only  this  afternoon." 

He  was  struck  by  this1  new  light  on  his  hero; 
but  it  failed  to  swerve  him  from  his  own  pur- 
pose. 

"Then  the  more  fool  Marshall  Blount!"  he 
ejaculated.  "I  thought  he  had  more  sense." 

She  realized  that  the  matter  had  passed  be- 
yond argument,  and  wearied  herself  against  his 
stubborn  will  no  more.  What  must  be,  must 
be.  In  the  morning  she  gave  Philippa's  mes- 
sage to  Fern,  and  was  prepared  to  hear  Steve 
announce  his  own  intention  to  go  West  later  in 
the  summer;  but,  whether  his  plans  were  more 
fluid  than  they  seemed,  or  because  he  deemed 
it  prudent  to  hold  this  project  in  reserve,  he 
dropped  no  hint  of  last  night's  discussion. 

[193] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

What  most  concerned  him  for  the  moment  was 
Fern's  lukewarm  reception  of  the  great  news. 

"Why,  I  expected  to  see  you  do  a  double 
shuffle  at  the  mention  of  such  a  thing,"  he  com- 
plained. "I  guess  you  don't  appreciate  what 
a  chance  you've  got.  Do  you  suppose  Marshall 
Blount  asks  any  Tom,  Dick,  or  Harry  to  travel 
with  him?  Lord  love  you,  that  car  of  his  is 
fine  enough  for  royalty." 

Fern  threw  more  animation  into  her  manner. 

"Of  course  I  appreciate  the  invitation,"  she 
said;  "but  I  expected  to  spend  some  of  the  sum- 
mer in  our  new  house.  It  will  seem  almost  like 
being  abroad." 

"Yes;  there  is  something  in  that,"  agreed 
her  father,  complacently.  "You  ought  to  hear 
Hoyt  go  on  about  the  stuff  up  there.  But,  all 
the  same,  you  can't  afford  to  turn  down  a  trip 
with  Marshall  Blount." 

The  girl  appealed  to  her  mother. 

"Do  you,  too,  want  to  get  rid  of  me?" 

"I  want  you  to  do  what  will  be  for  the  best," 
answered  Olive. 

Braisted  had  reached  the  end  of  his  patience. 

"We've  had  enough  shilly-shallying,"  he  de- 
clared. "Fern,  you  see  Miss  Blount  right  away 
and  tell  her  she  can  count  on  you.  And  tell 
her  with  a  cheerful  face.  What's  got  into  the 
the  girl?"  he  demanded,  as  she  left  the  room 
with  an  air  of  martyrdom.  "You'd  think  we 
were  begging  her  to  go  back  to  Tuscarora  County. 

[194] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

You  don't  suppose  she  still  has  Ben  Halsey  on 
the  brain?" 

"I  told  you  last  night  that  that  needn't  worry 
you." 

The  turn  she  gave  to  her  reply  drew  his  notice. 

"You  speak  as  if  something  else  might  worry 
me.  Maybe  you  can  see  more  point  to  Fern's 
mulishness  than  I  can?" 

His  wife  was  seized  with  a  great  longing  to 
avow  her  fear;  but  she  feared  derision.  To 
Steve's  mind,  instinct  and  intuition  carried 
no  conviction.  Her  indecision  whipped  up  his 
interest. 

"You  evidently  know  something,"  he  pressed. 

"It  probably  wouldn't  seem  anything  to  you." 

"I'll  be  the  judge  of  that.  Out  with  it! 
What's  up  with  Fern  now?  Not  another  love 
affair?" 

"Yes;  and  it's  worrying  me  sick.  She's  just 
crazy  over  that  man  Hoyt." 

"You  think  so?" 

"I'm  sure  of  it." 

Braisted  stared  at  her  a  moment  with  the 
fixed,  unseeing  gaze  that  of  late  had  become  a 
habit  with  him. 

"She  hasn't  seen  much  of  him,"  he  said. 

"She  has  seen  more  of  him  than  you  think. 
That  Estabrook  woman  has  thrown  them  to- 
gether. I  could  almost  wish  her  dead  for  it." 

"Oh,  keep  cool,  keep  cool,"  he  charged.  "It 
wasn't  a  crime.  Tell  me  how  it  happened." 

[195] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

Olive  repeated  Fern's  version  of  the  meetings. 

"There's  nothing  strange  about  that,"  he 
commented. 

"Nothing  strange  in  that  woman's  traipsing 
out-of-the-way  streets  with  Hoyt!  I  wonder  if 
her  husband  would  say  the  same?" 

"I  don't  think  it  would  worry  him.  They 
were  acquainted  before  I  met  any  of  them.  I 
dare  say  they  merely  ran  across  each  other  out 
Beauchamp  Manor  way.  He  walks  for  the  sake 
of  his  liver,  and  she  to  keep  down  her  weight. 
This  isn't  a  village  scandal,  Olive.  Don't  let 
your  dislike  of  Mrs.  Estabrook  make  you  do  her 
an  injustice.  And  don't  misjudge  Hoyt,  either. 
He's  as  straight  as  a  die." 

"Was  it  straight  of  him  not  to  mention  that 
he'd  met  Fern?" 

"There  was  nothing  underhand  about  it — nor 
surprising,  for  that  matter.  He  has  too  big  a 
proposition  on  his  mind  to  give  such  trifles  a 
second  thought." 

"He  hasn't  too  much  on  his  mind  to  flirt  with 
Fern.  Your  own  eyes  ought  to  have  told  you 
that." 

"I  saw  only  his  usual  way  with  women.  Don't 
take  him  so  seriously." 

"Fern  took  him  seriously.  You'd  have  thought 
so  if  you  had  seen  her  face  last  night  when  she 
heard  he  wouldn't  stay  to  dinner."  She  added 
convincing  details. 

"That  won't  do,"  he  said,  gravely.     "I  don't 

[196] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

mind  his  making  up  to  her;  but  she  mustn't 
follow  his  lead  at  this  stage  of  the  game.  I 
can't  have  Hoyt  think  she  is  throwing  herself 
at  his  head.  She  must  play  her  cards  another 
way  if  she  wants  to  marry  him." 

"Marry  him!'* 

"That's  what  I  said." 

She  could  not  believe  him  in  earnest. 

"Steve!"  she  cried.  "What  are  you  saying? 
You  don't  mean  you'd  as  lief  see  your  daughter 
marry  that — that — " 

"Well?"  he  prompted.     "What  is  he?" 

For  a  long  moment  she  stared  at  him  ex- 
citedly. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  challenged.     "Do  you?" 

He  caught  up  the  gauge  without  an  instant's 
hesitation. 

"I  know  that  he's  a  thoroughbred  to  begin 
with — anybody  can  see  that.  He's  got  a  way 
with  him  that's  only  born  in  a  man  and  comes 
from  a  line  of  ancestors  who've  been  used  to 
march  at  the  head  of  the  procession.  And  he 
has  brains.  I  wish  I  had  his  brains.  But  you 
know  all  this.  You've  had  time  to  size  him  up. 
You've  watched  him  mix  with  other  people, 
heard  him  talk — " 

"Yes,  I've  heard  him  talk.  But  who  will 
vouch  for  the  truth  of  it?" 

"He  doesn't  need  anybody  to  vouch  for  him. 
He  speaks  for  himself." 

"I  should  say  he  did!    I  don't  believe  half 

[197] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

he  says  any  more.  No  one  human  being  could 
have  done  all  he  brags  about." 

Hoyt's  advocate  gave  a  grunt  of  disgust. 

"Tuscarora  again!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  never 
met  a  man  of  the  world  back  home;  so,  of  course, 
Hoyt  is  a  liar!  I'm  glad  I've  more  confidence 
in  mankind.  I  admire  Proctor  Hoyt.  I  think — " 

"Oh,  think  what  you  please  about  him,  Steve," 
she  interrupted,  desperately.  "It  is  Fern  that 
matters.  I  don't  want  to  pry  into  your  new 
business.  You've  snubbed  me  so  often  that 
I'm  done  with  it.  But  when  you  can  calmly 
discuss  Fern's  marrying  this  man,  you  should 
realize  that,  as  her  mother,  there  are  some 
things  I  ought  to  know." 

Braisted  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then 
slowly  crossed  the  room  to  her. 

"In  six  months'  time  Proctor  Hoyt  will  be 
considered  the  catch  of  the  town,"  he  said,  im- 
pressively. "I  can't  tell  you  exactly  what  I 
mean,  but  you  may  take  Steve  Braisted's  word 
for  it  that  it's  worth  while.  Just  credit  me 
with  a  little  common  sense,  Olive.  Do  you 
suppose  I'd  hand  my  girl  over  to  a  good-for- 
nothing  or  a  blackleg?" 

"Of  course  not,  Steve." 

"Another,  thing.  I'd  never  try  to  force  a 
husband  on  her  she  didn't  care  about.  But  I 
judge  from  what  you  say  that  she  and  Hoyt 
do  take  to  each  other,  and,  if  the  wind  continues 
to  set  that  way,  I  sha'n't  have  a  word  to  say 

[198] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

against  it.  What  I  don't  want,  however,  is  for 
him  to  think  he's  struck  a  cinch,  and  the  sooner 
Fern  gets  away  the  better.  I  prefer  to  keep 
business  and  sentiment  apart  for  a  little  while 
longer.  By  fall  they'll  both  know  whether 
they're  in  earnest.  Fern  has  been  a  kind  of 
human  kaleidoscope  this  year,  and  there's  no 
telling  what  colors  she'll  show  after  a  whirl 
across  the  continent." 

With  this  Olive  had  to  be  content.  She  could 
not  bring  herself  to  speak  of  the  affectionate 
manicurist.  She  would  have  had  to  abase  her 
pride  and  explain  Madam  Sheba,  too.  More- 
over, she  could  not  believe  that  the  Providence 
of  her  simple  faith  would  let  Fern  wreck  her 
happiness.  Separation  would  do  its  work.  By 
autumn  another  fancy  would  have  eclipsed  Hoyt 
even  as  Hoyt  had  eclipsed  poor  Ben. 

So  ended  the  Easter  outing.  Instead  of  a  re- 
turn to  simplicity,  it  had  heralded  a  wider  plunge 
into  uncertainty,  and  when  the  family  scattered 
— S.  J.  to  the  seat  of  wisdom  of  his  choice,  Fern 
to  the  refining  influence  of  Miss  Abercrombie, 
Steve  to  his  cafes  and  committee-rooms — Olive 
sat  herself  down  in  her  familiar  rocker  in  the 
favorite  corner  of  the  room  she  called  her  own, 
and  asked  herself  if  it  were  not  all  a  bad  dream. 
Whereupon,  from  the  adjoining  chamber  strolled 
a  tangible  proof  of  the  reality  of  things,  embodied 
in  the  uncouth  shape  of  Eli  Yale,  whose  master, 
swayed  by  dietary  considerations,  had  at  the 

[199] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

eleventh  hour  decided  to  leave  him  in  her  un- 
willing custody.  And,  as  she  shrank  now  from 
the  ugly  mask,  the  creature  seemed  to  symbolize 
the  brute  force  of  circumstance  which  was  hurry- 
ing her  she  knew  not  where. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A 5  the  time  for  leaving  the  Walden  drew  near 
— and  it  came  swiftly — Olive  realized  that 
the  hotel  had  indeed  become  a  second  home  to 
her,  and  that  her  fellow-guests  had  taken  a 
place  in  her  regard  which  stood  for  more  than 
friendship  and  perhaps  had  its  nearest  analogy 
in  the  tie  binding  crusading  comrades-in-arms. 
The  giant  Red  Tape  had  at  one  time  or  another 
threatened  to  worst  them  all;  the  same  pitfalls 
had  beset  their  way;  similar  triumphs  had 
crowned  their  strife.  Together  they  had  become 
socially  expert  and  unafraid,  veterans  with  a 
store  of  common  memories. 

And  that  she,  as  an  individual,  had  come  to 
mean  something  to  her  fellows  was  made  plain 
on  the  eve  of  her  departure.  Just  before  dinner 
on  the  last  Sunday  she  spent  in  the  hotel,  Mrs. 
Tully,  with  elaborate  precautions  for  secrecy, 
drew  her  aside  and  bade  her  prepare  to  be  sur- 
prised. 

"  Surprised !"  she  said.    "  What  has  happened?" 

"Nothing  yet.     It's  to  come  off  to-night  in 

the  back  parlor  after  the  singing.     I  feel  like 

a  Benedict  Arnold  to  tell  you;  but  I  hate  being 

14  1 201  ] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

taken  unawares  myself,  and  I'm  sure  you  don't 
relish  it  either.  The  fact  is,  we  have  clubbed 
together  to  buy  you  a  farewell  present." 

Olive  felt  suddenly  weak-kneed  and  sat  down. 

"My  stars!"  she  cried.  "You  mean  the — the 
Congressmen's  wives?" 

"I  mean  all  the  women  in  the  hotel.  The 
idea  started  with  the  official  ladies,  but  first 
one  and  then  another  of  the  department  girls, 
to  whom  you've  given  carriage  rides  and  been 
lovely  in  other  ways,  got  wind  of  it  and  insisted 
on  contributing,  so  we  made  it  general.  It 
turned  out  that  you  had  made  friends  of  every- 
body from  Harriet  Pratt  to  Milly,  the  maid. 
Don't  look  so  woebegone  over  it." 

The  victim  of  popularity  made  a  heroic  at- 
tempt to  smile. 

"But  I  didn't  do  anything  much,"  she  pro- 
tested. "I  don't  want  presents  or  thanks. 
Can't — oh,  can't  you  head  them  off?" 

"I  should  say  I  couldn't!  The  present  is  not 
only  bought  and  marked,  but  hidden  under  a 
table-spread  behind  the  organ  this  very  minute. 
And  while  I'm  in  the  traitor  business  I  may  as 
well  tell  you  what  it  is.  I  was  for  giving  you 
something  personal,  say  a  watch  or  a  piece  of 
silver,  but  after  you  took  Mrs.  Pratt  all  through 
your  new  house  last  week — you  don't  know  how 
it  tickled  her — she  came  back  with  an  idea 
which  no  amount  of  talk  could  change.  She 
said  she  saw  so  many  things  she'd  never  seen 

[202] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

before,  that  she  was  in  downright  despair  of  our 
hitting  on  anything  you  hadn't  already;  but 
just  before  she  left,  as  she  was  taking  a  last  look 
around  the  hall,  she  noticed  that  you  had  no 
umbrella-stand.  Well,  an  umbrella-stand  we 
had  to  get,  and,  since  it  was  her  idea,  Harriet 
simply  elected  herself  a  committee  of  one  to 
pick  it  out.  I  can't  say  I  fancy  her  choice  my- 
self, though  I've  kept  my  opinion  quiet.  Mrs. 
Estabrook  made  no  bones  of  telling  what  she 
thought,  however,  and  right  to  Mrs.  Pratt's 
face;  but  I  won't  repeat  her  remarks.  I  won't 
tell  you,  either,  what  the  thing  is  like.  You 
might  as  well  have  that  much  of  a  surprise  when 
the  speech-making  is  over." 

"The  speech-making!     Is  there — will  she — " 

Mrs.  Tully  nodded. 

"She  will,  of  course.  A  team  of  wild  ele- 
phants couldn't  drag  her  away  from  such  a 
chance.  To  my  mind  Harriet  Pratt  is  the  strong- 
est kind  of  argument  against  woman  suffrage. 
We  women  talk  a  lot  now — it's  our  safety-valve; 
but  if,  along  with  the  ballot  and  the  right  to 
run  for  office,  we  should  get  the  speech  habit 
ingrained,  there  wouldn't  be  any  living  in  the 
land.  If  a  person  like  Harriet  were  elected 
Speaker,  she  would  take  the  title  literally  and 
turn  the  Congressional  Record  into  an  autobiog- 
raphy. And  just  imagine — but  you  don't  want 
to  hear  any  more  of  my  ramblings.  You  need 
the  time  to  think  up  your  impromptu  reply." 

[203] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

Olive  moaned  feebly. 

"Must  I  speak,  too?"  she  asked.  "Can't  I 
just  say  'Thank  you'?" 

The  old  lady  grinned  sympathetically. 

"Oh,  of  course,  you  could  get  out  of  it  by 
being  too  moved  to  respond,  but  it  would  dis- 
appoint the  meeting.  We  dote  on  the  felicitous 
impromptu  here  in  Washington.  It  is  a  sign 
that  we're  learning  to  play  the  game." 

"But  what  can  I  say?" 

"You  have  me  there.  I  don't  see  myself  what 
could  be  said  on  getting  that  umbrella-stand. 
What  there  is  in  favor  of  it,  Mrs.  Pratt  will  say. 
What  there  is  against  it — which  is  a  lot — you 
can't  say,  and  that  seems  to  exhaust  the  field. 
I  think  you'll  have  to  confine  yourself  to  what  the 
politicians  call  glittering  generalities.  Don't 
worry  about  it,  my  dear.  Something  will  prob- 
ably come  to  you.  If  there  doesn't,  why,  just 
be  touched  and  stammer." 

Her  departure  left  Olive  panic-stricken,  and 
it  took  all  her  fund  of  self-control  to  resist  a 
craven  impulse  to  run  away.  Why  would  they 
give  her  a  present?  And  why,  if  they  must  be 
foolish,  did  they  go  about  it  in  such  a  public 
way?  Couldn't  she  feign  illness  for  the  evening? 
It  would  not  be  so  black  a  deception;  she  felt 
positively  sick  already,  and,  perhaps,  when  the 
gathering  heard,  they  would  send  Mrs.  Pratt 
alone  with  the  offering.  But  reflection  told  her 
that  they  would  never  do  this.  If  she  eluded 

[204] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

them  now,  they  would  plan  another  conspicuous 
martyrdom,  when  not  even  the  hymn-singing 
would  help  soften  the  ordeal.  Then,  with  a 
return  to  characteristic  unselfishness,  she  put 
herself  in  their  place.  They  meant  only  kind- 
ness, and  deserved,  not  this  cowardice,  but  her 
fullest  gratitude.  She  must  not  rob  them  of 
their  pleasure  in  giving.  She  must  go  among 
them  as  always,  listen  to  the  hymns  with  her 
usual  calm,  ignore  the  shrouded  gift  in  the  shadow 
of  the  organ,  show  surprise  at  the  climax — 
oh,  if  Mrs.  Tully  had  not  warned  her  at  all! — 
and,  if  possible,  requite  Mrs.  Pratt 's  rounded 
periods  with  a  little  speech  of  thanks. 

A  little  speech  of  thanks!  There  loomed  the 
fearful  stumbling-block.  The  thought  of  facing 
a  large  drawing-roomful  of  people,  specially 
assembled  to  do  her  kindness,  petrified  her  with 
fright.  She  strove,  during  the  dinner  she  could 
not  eat,  to  recall  how  Mrs.  Pratt  had  worded 
her  facile  effusions  at  the  hundred  and  one 
meetings  of  the  official  ladies;  but  the  substance 
of  the  social  arbiter's  eloquence  had  evaporated, 
leaving  only  a  memory  of  prolixity  which  Olive 
had  no  ambition  to  copy.  Brevity  rather  was 
her  aim,  and,  as  the  time  for  preparation  lapsed 
and  inspiration  still  hung  fire,  she  feared  she 
should  employ  it  to  the  verge  of  parsimony. 

Her  abstraction  drew  Steve's  notice. 

"Aren't  you  feeling  quite  up  to  par?"  he 
asked.  "  These  new  green  peas  are  worth  your 

[205] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

while.  They  put  me  in  mind  of  our  truck-farm 
days." 

They  seemed  in  some  recondite  way  to  put 
his  wife  in  mind  of  something  else. 

"How  do  you  start  in  to  compose  a  speech?" 
she  queried,  abruptly. 

"I  call  Ben  Halsey." 

"Yes.     And  what  next?" 

"That's  all,"  he  grinned. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  don't — that  Ben — " 

"Of  course  he  writes  them.  What's  a  secre- 
tary for?  I've  no  time  to  fool  away  in  that 
fashion.  He  did  my  campaign  speeches,  and 
he  wrote  that  one  on  conservation  I  got  off  in 
the  House  a  while  ago.  I've  had  a  lot  of  com- 
plimentary letters  from  out  home  about  that. 
I  had  leave  to  print  and  franked  copies  all  over 
the  district." 

Her  doubt  as  to  the  ethics  of  this  state  of 
affairs  lost  itself  in  the  dazzling  thought  that 
Ben  was  the  very  instrument  to  work  her  salva- 
tion. Making  an  excuse  for  leaving  the  table, 
she  hurried  around  the  corner  to  the  secretary's 
boarding-place  only  to  be  told  that  he  had  not 
yet  come  home. 

"But  you  expect  him?"  she  asked,  anxiously. 
"I  must  see  him." 

The  slatternly  mulatto  who  answered  her  ring 
gave  the  matter  her  sympathetic  attention. 

"Wall,"  she  stated,  "he  sayd  he'd  shorely  be 
home  to  dinnah;  but  he's  'peared  not  to  hone 

[206] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

much  fer  what  he  eats  lately,  an'  he  mought 
fergit  to  come  at  all." 

"You  don't  think  he's  sick?" 

"No'm."  She  smiled  wisely.  "Hit  look  mo' 
like  love  to  me.  But  'scuse  me;  will  you  come 
in  an'  set  down?  I'm  helpin'  serve." 

Olive  traversed  a  dingy  hall  to  a  dingier 
drawing-room  crowded  with  frowsy  plush  furni- 
ture and  malodorous  from  the  meal  going  noisily 
forward  somewhere  below  stairs.  The  whole 
aspect  of  the  place  was  mean  and  cheerless,  and 
filled  her  motherly  heart  with  self-reproach  that 
she  should  never  before  have  investigated  the 
secretary's  manner  of  life.  She  had,  it  was  true, 
asked  him  whether  his  boarding-place  was  satis- 
factory, but  she  felt  now  that  she  should  have 
taken  an  active  interest  in  his  welfare.  Cer- 
tainly she  would  look  into  the  detail  of  his 
salary  at  once.  The  author  of  Steve's  speeches 
deserved  far  better  housing  than  this.  She  was 
preoccupied  with  this  thought  when  Halsey  pres- 
ently came  upon  her  with  an  ejaculation  of  surprise. 

"Is  anything  wrong?"  he  demanded. 

"Yes."  She  swept  the  whole  squalid  setting 
with  a  gesture.  "All  this  is  wrong.  Doesn't 
my  husband  pay  you  a  large  enough  salary  to 
let  you  live  in  a  different  sort  of  home?" 

Ben  colored  violently. 

"Of  course,"  he  stammered.  "I — I  am  well 
paid.  Mr.  Braisted  has  always  given  me  more 
than  his  government  allowance  for  clerk  hire." 

[207] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Then  why  don't  you  find  a  better  boarding- 
place?" 

"I  was  in  another  house  at  first,"  he  explained, 
hurriedly,  "but  I  thought  it  best  to  make  a 
change.  This  is  very  convenient  to  the  Walden, 
you  see,  and — and  it's  really  not  so  seedy  as  it 
looks.  The  table  is  plentiful,  and  my  window — " 

She  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm,  and  he  forsook 
his  excuses  abruptly. 

"That  is  not  your  real  reason." 

"No,"  he  admitted. 

"You  came  here  to  save  money — to  save 
money  for  Fern?" 

He  met  her  accusation  frankly. 

"Yes,"  he  owned.  "I  did  have  something  of 
the  kind  in  mind." 

She  turned  aside  with  a  lump  in  her  throat. 

"If  I  were  you,  Ben,"  she  said,  slowly,  avoid- 
ing his  look,  "I  wouldn't  scrimp  any  more." 

He  was  silent  for  a  tense  moment. 

"You  tell  me  that  because  you  think  I've  no 
longer  a  chance,"  he  declared,  finally. 

"I  spoke  for  your  good." 

"I  realize  it.  And  it's  the  same  thing  my 
common  sense  has  been  telling  me.  For  a  little 
while — that  first  night  of  Fern's  vacation — I 
imagined  she  felt  toward  me  as  she  did  in  the 
beginning;  but  I  soon  saw  that  it  was  the  new 
house,  not  being  with  me,  that  brought  the  sparkle 
to  her  eyes.  And  common  sense  tells  me  that 
she  sees  I  am  not  the  match  she  may  expect; 

[208] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

that  I  am  drifting  out  of  her  life;  that  other 
things,  perhaps  another  man,  will  take  my  place; 
but — "  his  voice  rang  out  defiantly — "I  refuse 
to  listen  to  common  sense.  I  mean  to  go  on 
hoping  still." 

Olive  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed 
him. 

"And  I'll  go  on  hoping,  too,"  she  cried. 

They  talked  earnestly  together  for  a  time,  till 
with  a  start  she  recalled  her  real  errand  and 
the  too-generous  company  which  must  already 
be  gathering  in  the  back  parlor  of  the  Walden. 
She  feared  it  was  too  late;  but  she  had  no  sooner 
voiced  her  difficulty  than  Ben  began  jotting 
notes  on  the  back  of  an  envelope,  which,  with 
a  word  added  here  or  stricken  out  there,  became 
in  a  trice  a  graceful  little  response. 

"There,"  he  said,  after  reading  it  over  to  her; 
"that  ought  to  answer  whatever  they  give  or 
say.  It's  neither  too  long  nor  too  short,  and 
you'll  easily  have  it  memorized  by  the  time  you 
get  back." 

Olive  sallied  forth  in  the  twilight,  and,  taking 
a  roundabout  course,  entered  one  of  the  parks 
and  conned  her  task.  After  some  half-dozen 
circlings  of  the  militant  bronze,  her  sole  specta- 
tor, she  felt  herself  letter-perfect  and  set  her 
face  toward  home,  devoting  the  last  of  her  leisure 
to  an  attempt  to  throw  expression  into  her  re- 
cital. So  absorbed  was  she  that  she  did  not 
recognize  Steve  till  he  detached  himself  from  the 

[209] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

summer-evening  group  about  the  door  and  told 
her  that  she  was  in  great  demand. 

"At  least  half  a  dozen  women  have  asked  me 
where  you  were.  Mrs.  Pratt  especially  is  in  a 
stew.  Here  she  is  again." 

Olive  thrust  her  notes  into  the  bosom  of 
her  dress  as  the  social  arbiter  bore  down  on 
her,  and  with  their  disappearance  vanished 
every  recollection  of  their  contents.  Stage-fright 
gripped  her  like  a  vampire,  sucking  out  her 
courage  and  benumbing  her  brain.  She  had  not 
the  faintest  notion  what  Mrs.  Pratt  said  to  her 
on  the  way  to  the  back  parlor,  or  how  she  got 
to  a  conspicuous  seat  in  the  front  row  of  rocking- 
chairs  which  converged  on  the  organ  and  the 
cloaked  mystery  in  its  shadow.  She  was  even 
unaware  who  were  her  nearest  neighbors  till 
Mrs.  Tully,  on  her  left,  bent  to  her  with  a  word 
of  cheer. 

"How  you  took  me  in!"  she  whispered. 
"After  your  joke  about  being  nervous  I  expected 
you  would  run  away;  but  here  you  come  march- 
ing in  as  cool  as  a  Maine  nor'easter!  Poor  Mrs. 
Pratt  is  the  one  who  looks  flustered." 

The  victim  wet  her  lips  and  battled  to  feel  as 
calm  as  she  was  said  to  look.  Then  some  one  on 
her  right,  who  turned  out  to  be  Mrs.  Estabrook, 
handed  her  a  hymn-book. 

"They're  chiefly  modern  dissenting  jingles, 
aren't  they?"  she  said,  fluttering  the  leaves  of 
her  own  thin  volume  as  if  it  were  something 

[210] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

curious,  yet  scarcely  polite.  "I  see  hardly  any 
hymns  with  which,  as  a  churchwoman,  I  am 
familiar." 

Mrs.  Tully  leaned  forward  for  caustic  retort; 
but  just  then  the  organist  began  the  first  bar 
of  a  hymn  so  ancient  that  even  Mrs.  Estabrook 
approved,  and  she  let  its  solemn  music  answer 
for  her.  After  they  had  sung  this,  some  one 
called  for  another  quite  as  old;  then  still  others, 
as  stanchly  orthodox,  followed,  to  confound  the 
critic  and  to  soothe  Olive  with  their  accustomed 
anodyne.  As  she  had  never  in  her  life  had  a 
religious  doubt  which  the  familiar  hymns  could 
not  dispel,  so  had  they  often  charmed  away  her 
secular  worries  of  the  week  and  fortified  her 
against  what  might  lie  in  store. 

And  this  was  what  happened  now.  She  ceased 
to  feel  that  she  faced  an  ordeal.  Was  not  the 
room  the  same  where  she  had  often  found  rest? 
Were  not  these  the  same  friendly  folk  who  had 
shared  other  vesper  meditations?  How  foolish 
she  had  been  to  shrink  from  meeting  them  to- 
night. Homespun  in  most  part,  like  herself,  they 
meant  her  only  kindness.  Her  heart  warmed 
toward  them  all,  and,  by  virtue  of  her  transient 
association  with  this  place  of  quiet  hours,  even 
Mrs.  Estabrook  shone  in  a  more  gracious  light. 

And  even  Mrs.  Estabrook  admitted  that  Mrs. 
Pratt  handled  the  presentation  with  dignity. 
Despite  the  prophecies  of  the  envious,  she  was 
not  oratorical,  she  was  not  prolix. 

[211] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

"In  these  short  lives  of  ours,"  she  said,  simply, 
"we  at  times  meet  a  fellow-being  who  radiates 
kindness  as  the  sun  does  warmth.  We  have  had 
such  a  benefactor  under  this  roof,  and,  now 
that  she  is  to  leave  us,  we  ask  her  to  let  us  testify 
our  gratitude  by  a  little  gift.  Like  yourself, 
Mrs.  Braisted,  it  performs  humble  service  in  a 
beautiful  way.  Accept  it  with  our  love." 

Through  a  mist  Olive  dimly  beheld  an  oriental 
figure  of  many  warring  colors.  If  it  was  not 
beautiful,  she  did  not  perceive  it.  The  spirit  in 
which  it  was  proffered  was  what  counted;  and 
to  that  spirit,  forgetting  her  timidity  with  her 
prepared  response,  she  made  reply. 

"But  it's  you  who  have  been  kind  to  me,"  she 
cried,  stretching  out  her  hands  to  them.  "I 
was  lonely,  and  you  made  this  place  a  home. 
And,  oh,  do  help  me  make  the  new  place  seem  a 
home!"  she  entreated.  "You  will  always  see 
this  present  of  yours  as  you  enter  the  door,  and 
I  hope  you  will  enter  often.  Begin  Thursday," 
she  added,  with  sudden  inspiration,  "my  first 
Thursday — and  all  come." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

FERN  read  an  account  of  the  affair  in  a 
morning  paper,  and,  dropping  in  Monday 
afternoon,  viewed  the  gift  for  herself.  Olive  led 
her  to  the  bow-window  of  her  sitting-room, 
where  she  had  had  the  umbrella-stand  placed 
temporarily,  and  raised  the  shades. 

"He  is  a  Moor,"  she  explained. 

"So  I  see." 

"That  jar  behind  him  is  for  the  umbrellas, 
of  course.  The  sword  in  his  sash  comes  out, 
and  Mrs.  Pratt  said  it  could  be  used  for  a  paper- 
cutter,  which  seemed  to  me  a  good  idea.  I've 
often  wished  I  had  a  paper-cutter  in  the  front 
hall  when  I've  taken  letters  from  the  postman." 

Fern  left  off  her  appraisal  for  a  moment. 

"It  won't  ever  be  necessary  in  the  new  house 
for  you  to  take  letters  from  the  postman,"  she 
pointed  out.  "Creevey,  or  some  other  servant, 
will  attend  to  it." 

"That  will  spoil  half  the  fun  of  getting  let- 
ters," said  Olive.  "Hasn't  he  a  first  name?" 

"Who?" 

"The  butler— Creevey." 

"Of  course.    But  you  must  not  call  him  by 

[213] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

it.  He  wouldn't  know  what  to  think  of  it.  He's 
English." 

Olive  thought  this  no  compliment  to  the  in- 
telligence of  a  great  nation;  but  Fern  deemed 
it  an  unanswerable  argument,  and  reverted  to 
the  Moor. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "you  are  not  thinking 
seriously  of  putting  this  thing  in  the  hall?" 

"I  am." 

"Among  the  marbles?" 

"Right  among  the  marbles,"  assured  her 
mother,  firmly. 

"A  trumpery,  cast-iron,  red,  green,  and  yel- 
low Moor  alongside  the  Greeks!" 

"Yes.  I  can't  see  that  he'd  look  a  bit  more 
out  of  place  than  an  English  butler." 

"But,  mother—" 

"Now  don't  think,  Fern,  you  can  talk  me 
into  poking  this  umbrella-rack  off  in  a  corner. 
I  promised  a  roomful  of  people  that  they  should 
find  it  in  my  front  hall,  and  so  they  shall,  as  sure 
as  the  sun  rises  Thursday." 

The  girl  gave  an  exclamation  of  annoy- 
ance. 

"Did  you  ask  them  for  Thursday?" 

"Yes.     Why  not?" 

"Because  it's  not  only  closing  day  at  Beau- 
champ  Manor,  but  my  last  day  in  Washing- 
ton as  well.  I  came  in  purposely  to  tell  you. 
Philippa's  father  has  wired  her  that  we're  leav- 
ing early  Saturday,  and  she  thinks  it  best  for 

[214] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

us  to  take  the  midnight  train  Thursday,  as  she 
has  several  errands  in  New  York." 

Her  mother  was  taken  aback  by  the  news. 

"To  think  that  your  very  first  day  at  home 
should  be  your  last!  Why,  I  counted  on  you 
for  a  week,  at  least,  to  help  start  the  place 
going." 

"It  will  run  itself  if  you  let  Creevey  have  a 
free  rein,"  asserted  Fern,  confidently.  "He  has 
worked  in  some  of  the  finest  houses,  both  at 
home  and  over  here.  I'm  so  glad  Mr.  Hoyt 
knew  that  he  was  out  of  employment.  Just 
send  him  into  the  place  a  few  hours  ahead  of 
you,  and  everything  will  be  in  order.  And  put 
the  responsibility  of  Thursday  on  his  shoulders, 
too.  Tell  him  how  many  people  you  expect, 
and  what  you  want  served.  As  it's  a  kind  of 
housewarming,  I  presume  you  will  have  some- 
thing fairly  elaborate  in  the  way  of  refreshments. 
Creevey  will  know  what  is  most  appropriate. 
I'll  leave  my  new  blue  chiffon  unpacked  and 
help  you  receive,  though  I  don't  want  it  con- 
sidered in  any  way  a  debut.  I  shall  come  out 
formally  in  the  fall  or  early  winter." 

Olive  had  not  foreseen  a  function  of  such 
magnitude  when  she  pressed  her  impulsive  in- 
vitation on  the  donors  of  the  Moor,  nor  did  she 
dream  that  Steve,  on  his  part,  had  hospitable 
plans  for  the  same  date  till  he  presently  brought 
her  a  list  of  people  he  wished  asked  to  dine  with 
them  Thursday  night. 

[215] 


THE   WOMAN   OF   IT 

"But  that  is  Fern's  last  evening,"  she  objected. 

"I  know  it,  and  I  want  the  dinner  to  be  a  kind 
of  send-off  for  her.  At  the  same  time,"  he  went 
on,  "I  want  to  show  the  Blount  girl  that  we're 
not  such  hayseeds  ourselves.  She  may  meet  a 
sweller  tableful  in  her  father's  dining-room, 
but  when  it  comes  to  gray  matter  I  guess  my 
list  will  pan  out  favorably  alongside.  I  don't 
want  a  crowd,  you  see.  The  Estabrooks  and 
Tullys  make  four,  Hoyt  and  the  girls  seven,  and 
you  and  I  bring  the  total  up  to  nine." 

"Oughtn't  we  to  ask  the  Pratts?  I'm  afraid 
she'll  be  offended  if  we  don't,  particularly  after 
last  night." 

Braisted  vetoed  the  suggestion  at  once. 

"This  is  my  dinner,"  he  declared,  "and  if 
you're  worried  about  what  anybody  thinks,  just 
tell  them  so  and  shove  the  blame  on  me.  Nine 
people  are  as  many  as  I  want.  I'm  not  planning 
a  banquet." 

"You  could  leave  out  the  Estabrooks  or  Hoyt." 

"For  the  sake  of  that  sour-faced  woman! 
Not  much.  Hoyt  and  Mrs.  Estabrook  will  be 
the  life  of  the  party.  You'll  have  to  ask  Mrs. 
Pratt  some  other  time  when  Miss  Blount  is 
with  us.  Now  get  the  notes  off  right  away." 

She  sat  down  to  her  desk  and  dipped  a  pen. 

"Perhaps  Philippa  can't  come,"  she  said. 

"And  perhaps  she  can.  I  asked  her  in 
Lafayette  Square  this  afternoon.  Your  note  is 
just  a  matter  of  form." 

[216] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

Her  entire  connection  with  the  affair  was 
apparently  perfunctory,  for  it  transpired  that 
Steve,  not  content  with  choosing  the  guests, 
had  also  found  leisure  to  confer  with  the  omni- 
scient Creevey  as  to  the  menu.  Creevey  began 
to  loom  an  important  figure  in  her  future. 
He  was  seemingly  as  infallible  in  his  peculiar 
field  as  was  Harriet  Pratt  in  hers,  and  Olive  had 
misgivings  as  to  the  wisdom  of  domesticating 
such  a  paragon.  What  would  Creevey,  accus- 
tomed to  the  nobility  of  Europe  and  the  plutoc- 
racy of  America,  think  of  her  plain  ways  and 
simple  tastes?  She  had  not  even  seen  him  as 
yet.  Fern  and  Steve  between  them  had  effected 
his  capture  in  the  teeth  of  a  tempting  offer — so 
Proctor  Hoyt  said — from  the  British  embassy 
itself.  Surely  a  speaking  testimonial! 

Nothing,  however,  could  have  been  more  re- 
spectful or  respectable  than  Creevey 's  bearing, 
when  he  met  her  on  the  threshold  of  her  new 
home,  the  next  day  but  one.  He  was  astonish- 
ingly good-looking,  with  a  crown  of  gray  hair  and 
a  regularity  of  features  which,  had  he  sat  in  the 
United  States  Senate,  where  Olive  felt  that  he 
properly  belonged,  would  have  won  him  the 
steadfast  favor  of  the  ladies'  galleries.  Nor  was 
his  speech  less  distinguished.  He  asked  her 
wishes  for  the  day  with  a  voice  and  purity  of 
accent  which  few  of  the  statesmen  he  outshone 
could  boast,  and,  at  her  bidding,  with  quiet 
efficiency  made  his  suggestions  for  Thursday's 
15  1 217 1 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

reception,  which,  as  advised  by  Fern,  she  in- 
trusted solely  to  his  hands. 

As  she  was  about  to  end  this  stately  confer- 
ence she  bethought  herself  of  the  Walden  testi- 
monial, which  she  did  not  see. 

"An  umbrella-rack  was  sent  over  with  the  trunks 
this  morning, ' '  she  said.  "  What  was  done  withit?" 

Creevey  gravely  ushered  her  back  to  the  vesti- 
bule and  showed  her  the  Moor  hiding  his  chro- 
matic brilliance  in  a  nook  between  a  fluted 
column  and  a  palm. 

"I  inferred  that  you  would  wish  it  placed 
where  the  givers  could  see  it,  madam,"  he  ex- 
plained. "In  fact,  the  newspaper  account  which 
met  my  eye  quoted  you  as  saying  that  it  should 
be  visible  from  the  door.  If  you  will  kindly 
take  your  station  at  the  door — " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  complying,  "I  can  make  him 
out  now." 

Creevey  permitted  himself  a  decorous  smile. 

"The  palm  reconciles  the  discordant  colors," 
he  pointed  out.  "I  could  do  nothing  until  I 
thought  of  it." 

She  could  not  take  offense  at  his  manner — it 
was  too  deferential;  nor  at  his  reasoning,  for 
the  oriental  intruder,  as  she  could  now  see  for 
herself,  quarreled  outrageously  with  his  surround- 
ings; but  she  placed  friendship  before  art  or 
even  the  sensibilities  of  an  esthetic  butler,  and 
resolved  that  no  Walden  critic  should  accuse  her 
of  snobbery. 

[218] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"That  was  very  thoughtful  of  you — Creevey," 
she  said,  getting  out  the  menial  form  of  address 
with  difficulty. 

"Thank  you,  madam." 

"But  we  won't  have  the  palm  here  Thursday." 

He  thanked  her  again  with  his  strange  rising 
inflection,  though  for  what  he  was  thankful  she 
could  not  conceive,  and,  as  she  moved  toward 
the  stairway,  he  tentatively  opened  a  gilded 
grating  in  the  marble  paneling,  which  she  had 
imagined  bore  some  relation  to  the  heating 
apparatus. 

"The  lift  is  now  in  order,  madam,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"I  didn't  know  there  was  an  elevator.  Who 
runs  it?" 

"It  is  automatic." 

He  explained  the  mechanism  and  stood  aside 
for  her  to  enter,  which  she  did  with  hesitation. 
It  was  an  odd  sensation  to  float  aloft  as  sole 
occupant  of  the  car;  but  the  toy  came  to  a  pre- 
cise stop  at  the  right  place,  and  she  issued  near 
her  own  rooms  with  the  elation  of  a  new  and  not 
unpleasant  experience. 

Whether  Creevey  also  ranked  as  a  not  un- 
pleasant experience  she  could  as  yet  scarcely 
determine.  It  was  confusing  to  find  him  so 
handsome,  while  his  familiarity  with  the  house 
gave  her  the  feeling  that  he,  not  herself,  was  the 
one  in  authority.  His  attempt  to  fulfill  her 
promise  to  the  Walden  and  yet  key  the  Moorish 

[219] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

offender  with  his  background  was  also  a  cause 
for  wonder.  Were  all  English  butlers  such 
prodigies  of  tact?  She  could  not  put  him  out 
of  her  thoughts;  and  when  Steve  came  presently, 
eager  to  talk  of  the  house,  she  deluged  him  with 
Creevey. 

Braisted  threw  light  on  the  enigma. 

"It  was  certainly  foxy  of  him  to  try  to  show 
and  hide  the  Moor  at  the  same  time,"  he  laughed; 
"but  it's  not  so  surprising.  Knowing  the  house 
like  a  book,  he  naturally  can  tell  what  looks  best 
everywhere.  Didn't  I  mention  that  he  worked 
for  the  Colburns?" 

"For  the  Colburns!    Here?" 

"Sure.  That  was  the  main  reason  why  I 
hired  him." 

"If  that  wasn't  like  a  man!  It  ought  to  have 
been  your  main  reason  for  steering  clear  of  him." 

"How  so?" 

"Because  he'll  always  be  comparing  us  with 
the  Colburns — that's  why." 

"Well,  let  him!  I  don't  mind.  The  Braisted 
family  may  not  be  long  on  culture,  but  he'll 
get  his  wages  on  pay-day,  which  was  more  than 
Larry  Colburn  could  always  manage,  I'm  told. 
Don't  you  worry  about  comparisons.  They're 
all  in  our  favor.  Let's  stroll  through  the  plant 
and  try  to  realize  it's  ours." 

It  required  more  than  the  walk  with  Steve 
to  convince  her  that  this  great  edifice  was  home. 
The  humble  trifles  which  signified  domestic 

[220] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

comfort  to  her  were  everywhere  lacking.  Not  a 
corner  in  the  whole  echoing  place  deserved  the 
adjective  cozy,  not  a  room  contained  a  rocking- 
chair.  The  troop  of  unfamiliar  faces — ten  ser- 
vants altogether  had  been  enrolled  for  house  and 
stable — made  her  feel  an  interloper,  and  wher- 
ever she  stepped,  whether  in  the  ceremonial 
apartments  of  queer  furnishings  or  in  her 
marvelous  suite  of  the  sunken  bath,  which  she 
contrasted  sadly  with  her  tub  in  Tuscarora 
Falls,  she  half  expected  the  widow  of  Lawrence 
Colburn  to  appear  and  resent  her  intrusion. 
This  same  impression  haunted  their  first  dinner 
under  the  gilded  squares  and  rosettes  of  the 
carved  ceiling,  which  Creevey,  answering  a  query 
of  Steve's,  told  them  had  been  copied  from  a 
palace  in  Verona. 

"But  the  mantelpiece  is  genuine  Italian 
Renaissance  work,"  he  added.  "It  came  from 
a  villa  near  Fiesole." 

"How  about  the  sideboard  and  the  hang- 
ings," asked  Braisted,  pursuing  his  quest  of 
curious  knowledge.  "  They  look  like  old-timers." 

"The  Frangois  Premier  buffet  is  a  reproduc- 
tion," instructed  the  butler.  "The  original  is 
in  the  Cluny  Museum  at  Paris.  The  Dutch 
cupboard  is  old  and  a  fine  example.  The  tapes- 
tries are  seventeenth-century  Flemish,  and  repre- 
sent scenes  from  the  life  of  Ulysses.  The  mar- 
riage-coffer between  the  end  windows  is,  if  I 
may  say  so,  spurious." 

[221] 


THE   WOMAN    OF   IT 

"So!"  Braisted  left  his  seat  and  examined 
the  massive  piece  closely.  Worm-holes  riddled 
the  blackened  oak,  and  several  of  the  carved 
figures  tripped  their  bacchic  dance  devoid  of 
nose  or  hands;  but  these  ancient  scars  en- 
hanced rather  than  lessened  its  interest,  and 
seemed  to  convict  the  butler  of  crass  ignorance, 
till  he  sounded  a  worm-hole  and  exhibited  a  tiny 
leaden  shot. 

"Acids  did  the  rest,"  he  explained.  "You 
can  hardly  conceive,  sir,  what  wonders  can  be 
worked  with  permanganate  of  potash." 

Steve  whistled  his  amazement. 

"Have  we  any  more  fakes?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,  several.  There  are  false  tear- 
bottles  and  scarabs  in  the  drawing-room  cabinet, 
a  bogus  cinque-cento  triptych  in  the  library,  and 
various  canvasses  and  terra-cottas  of  which  I 
have  doubts.  But  don't  understand  me  as  say- 
ing that  they're  of  no  value.  A  good  imitation 
may  be  worth  a  great  deal." 

"As  a  gold  brick?"  hazarded  his  employer, 
shrewdly. 

Creevey  smiled  and  then  resumed  the  air  of  a 
servitor,  which  for  the  instant  he  had  discarded. 

"I  meant  that  they  are  beautiful  hi  them- 
selves," he  said. 

The  master  of  the  house  eyed  his  servant  with 
profound  respect. 

"You  seem  mighty  well  posted  on  antiques," 
he  commented. 

[222] 


THE   WOMAN    OF  IT 

"Thank  you,  sir.  I  have  a  taste  for  such 
things." 

"Did  you  pick  up  your  information  with  the 
Colburns?" 

"Not  altogether,  sir.  I  was  employed  three 
years  in  the  town-house  of  an  English  family, 
which  was  considered  a  show-place.  The  pub- 
lic was  allowed  to  view  the  collections  on  Fri- 
days, and  it  was  one  of  my  duties  to  explain  the 
objects  of  art." 

Steve  threw  his  wife  a  look  of  comical  dismay 
as  the  man  effaced  himself. 

"Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  to  let 
the  British  embassy  outbid  me,"  he  laughed. 
"I'm  not  sure  I  can  live  up  to  Creevey.  He 
makes  me  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  get  up  and  wait 
on  him" 

"But  how  can  he  go  on  being  a  butler?" 

"Because  it  pays.  He  draws  more  money 
from  me  than  Uncle  Sam  gives  many  a  depart- 
ment clerk." 

Proctor  Hoyt's  card  coming  in  at  this  pass, 
Braisted  bade  the  servant  ask  him  into  the 
dining-room,  and  he  presently  hailed  them  from 
the  doorway. 

"At  last  I  see  you  suitably  environed,"  he 
said,  halting  with  his  head  tilted  on  one  side  to 
admire  them.  "I  have  often  wondered  what 
you  reminded  me  of,  Steve,  and  now  it  has  come 
to  me.  You  are  one  of  the  great  merchant 
princes  reincarnate.  This  noble  fabric  is  not  in 

[223] 


THE   WOMAN    OF    IT 

modern  Washington,  It  stands  in  the  Via 
Balbi,  of  Genoa,  or  perhaps  in  the  Florentine 
Via  Tornabuoni,  or,  better  still,  at  some  glorious 
turn  of  the  Grand  Canal.  Yes,  it  is  Venice.  I 
came  by  gondola." 

Braisted  gave  a  loud,  pleased  laugh. 

"You're  certainly  a  past-master  at  jollying, 
Hoyt,"  he  said;  "but  I  do  like  to  hear  you  reel 
it  off.  Have  a  glass  of  wine  or  a  Benedic- 
tine?" 

"Merely  coffee — black,  with  cognac,  Creevey, 
and  one  of  your  excellent  cigars,  Steve." 

When  Creevey  had  again  withdrawn,  Hoyt 
turned  a  look  of  inquiry  on  his  host. 

"Will  he  do?"  he  asked. 

"Do!"  exclaimed  Braisted.  "Why,  man  alive, 
he's  too  good  to  be  true.  I  half  believe  you've 
palmed  off  a  disguised  college  professor  on  us." 
He  rehearsed  the  butler's  astonishing  opinions 
of  the  household  treasures. 

Hoyt  nodded  smilingly. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "he  is  great — Creevey  the 
Great!  I  am  a  democrat,  but  I  must  admit 
that  monarchy  breeds  the  ideal  servant.  Amer- 
ica could  never  have  produced  a  Creevey.  But 
don't  spoil  him.  Let  the  poor  fellow  air  his 
hobby  sometimes — it's  his  life;  but  keep  him 
in  his  place,  keep  him  strictly  in  his  place." 

In  view  of  this  injunction,  Olive  was  edified 
when,  late  in  the  evening,  the  rigid  advocate  of 
discipline,  supposing  himself  for  the  moment 

[224] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

alone  with  Creevey,  laid  his  arm  familiarly 
across  the  butler's  shoulders;  but,  inasmuch  as 
sundry  drafts  of  whisky  and  soda  had  followed 
the  coffee  and  cognac,  she  gave  his  lapse  no 
serious  thought. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  morrow  witnessed  Fern's  farewell  to 
her  school-days.  This  implied  no  ordinary 
commencement  exercises.  Things  were  ordered 
otherwise  at  Beauchamp  Manor.  Miss  Aber- 
crombie  did  not  formally  graduate  any  one. 
Results,  not  parchments — as  the  catalogue  put 
it — being  her  aim,  Beauchamp  Manor  cultiva- 
tion was  allowed  to  speak  for  itself  without  the 
aid  of  sheepskin.  No  bored  assemblage  writhed 
on  flesh-mortifying  seats  while  chits  just  out 
of  braids  held  forth  upon  the  true  conduct 
of  life.  Instead,  Miss  Abercrombie  merely  an- 
nounced that  she  would  be  at  home,  and,  gather- 
ing her  finished  product  about  her,  let  her  bevy 
of  "unbonneted"  justify  itself  by  its  works. 

On  the  surface  of  things,  Olive  had  to  admit, 
Miss  Abercrombie  triumphed.  If  the  prime 
object  of  feminine  education  was  to  evolve  a 
composed  hostess,  then  no  girl  of  the  graceful 
group  which  helped  to  do  the  honors  of  Beau- 
champ  Manor's  pseudo-baronial  hall  need  fear 
to  face  life.  They  bore  themselves  proudly, 
their  greetings  were  ready,  their  smiles  knew  no 
rest.  And  among  them,  her  delicate  color 

[226] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

heightened  winsomely,  her  gray  eyes  full  of 
animation,  Fern  played  her  part  with  such  ease 
that  Steve,  who  had  crowded  himself  into  a 
hot  frock-coat  for  the  occasion,  was  puffed  with 
boastful  pride. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Tuscarora?"  he 
asked  his  wife,  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "Why, 
Fern  can  give  Marshall  Blount's  daughter,  or 
any  of  them,  cards  and  spades!  She'll  hold  her 
own  wherever  you  put  her." 

"What  if  you  put  her  back  in  Tuscarora?" 
asked  Olive,  soberly.  "What  if  she  had  to  go 
back  to  plain  living,  maybe  poverty?" 

"Huh!"  he  grunted.  "You  croak  as  if  we 
were  next  door  to  the  poor-house.  Fern  will 
step  into  one  of  the  crack  places  of  the  city,  and 
she  won't  feel  a  mite  strange  in  it.  After  this 
training  she'll  take  to  it  like  a  cat  to  goldfish! 
Not  that  this  outfit  looks  so  grand  to  me  as  it 
did,"  he  qualified,  after  a  moment  of  searching 
self -analysis.  "Owning  an  establishment  like 
ours  is  a  sure-enough  eye-opener.  First  time  I 
came  here  I  walked  round  with  my  jaw  sagging. 
Now  I  can  discriminate  a  little  and  size  things 
up  at  pretty  near  their  real  value.  For  instance, 
I  notice  that  a  lot  of  these  statues  are  just  casts, 
not  the  best  marble  like  ours;  and  I'd  like  to 
hear  Creevey's  opinion  of  that  consignment  of 
armor  in  the  vestibule.  I'd  bet  dollars  to 
doughnuts  he'd  say  it  was  faked." 

These  esthetic  musings  were  cut  short  by  a 

[227] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

general  exodus  toward  the  lawn,  where,  perhaps 
because  of  the  relaxing  influence  of  ices,  music, 
and  countless  roses  in  full  bloom,  and  possibly 
because  Miss  Abercrombie's  vision  had  its  hu- 
man limitations,  the  pupils  of  Beauchamp  Manor 
doffed  their  stateliness  and  reverted  to  a  hungry, 
slangy  state  of  nature. 

"Oh,  we  call  that  drawing-room  business  Aunt 
Abby's  Peerless  Starch,"  Fern  laughed  when 
her  father  remarked  the  transformation.  "It's 
all  right  for  dress-parade,  but  who  wants  to 
look  like  Queen  Elizabeth  all  the  time?  It's 
rot,  you  know;  simply  rot." 

"Oh,  don't  use  that  word,"  begged  her  mother. 
"It's  horrid." 

"I  don't  take  to  it  either,  coming  from  you, 
Fern,"  added  Steve. 

Fern  shrugged  her  amusement  at  their  sudden 
nicety. 

"Why  is  it  worse  than  tommy-rot,  which  you 
both  use?"  she  asked,  flippantly.  "My  slang 
can't  touch  S.  J.'s  when  he  puts  his  mind  on  it. 
Why  don't  you  lecture  him?  That  reminds  me," 
she  went  on.  "I  had  a  note  from  him  this 
morning.  He  is  coming  down  from  New  Haven 
to  see  me  off.  It  will  be  nice  to  have  at  least 
one  of  the  family." 

"I  may  be  on  hand  myself,"  announced  her 
father.  "I  must  go  to  New  York  on  business 
some  day  this  week,  and  I  thought  I  might  as 
well  leave  to-night  with  you  and  Miss  Blount." 

[228] 


THE    WOMAN   OF  IT 

"To-night!"  said  Olive. 

"Why,  yes.  You  don't  mind,  do  you?  If 
you  do,  better  come  along  and  make  it  a  family 
group." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"It  will  be  hard  enough  to  say  good-by  at 
home.  When  will  you  be  back,  Steve?" 

"Saturday  evening,  probably.  With  ten  ser- 
vants on  the  premises,  I  dare  say  you  won't  feel 
timid?" 

"No,"  she  returned,  absently.  She  had  no- 
ticed with  a  pang  that  Steve's  offhand  suggestion 
received  no  second  from  Fern.  Then,  while 
her  eyes  dwelt  on  the  girl  as  she  restlessly  scanned 
the  crowd,  she  perceived  her  glance  fix  itself 
with  animation  on  a  figure  crossing  the  green- 
sward from  the  gate.  "Here  is  Mr.  Hoyt,"  she 
added,  in  a  voice  which  she  tried  to  make  color- 
less. "Did  you  ask  him,  Steve?" 

Braisted's  surprise  acquitted  him. 

"No,"  he  said.     "It  didn't  occur  to  me." 

"I  asked  Miss  Abercrombie  to  send  him  a 
card,"  Fern  explained,  with  composure.  "I 
thought  you  might  like  to  have  me.  I  invited 
Ben  Halsey,  too;  but  he  wrote  that  he  would 
be  too  busy." 

Steve  threw  his  wife  a  look  of  relief. 

"He  can't  think  anything  of  it  as  long  as 
Halsey  also  got  a  bid,"  he  told  her,  under  cover 
of  Hoyt's  congratulations  to  Fern.  "She's  got 
some  sense  left,  you  see." 

[229] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

Olive  found  no  comfort  in  this  reflection.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  Hoyt  must  read  the  girl's 
infatuation  in  her  eyes  as  she  drew  his  attention 
to  the  lilies  of  the  valley  caught  gracefully  at  her 
young  breast. 

"I  knew  they  were  yours  even  before  I  saw 
the  card,"  she  said.  "Every  one  else  sent 
roses." 

"Perhaps  you  would  rather  have  had  roses. 
But  I  meant  a  compliment.  The  lilies  seemed 
to  me  like  your  soul — white,  all  white,  and  fra- 
grant of  the  morning." 

Fern  threw  him  a  tender  look. 

"I  wouldn't  have  them  different  for  anything," 
she  said.  "They  are  as  beautiful  as  the  thought 
behind  them." 

To  Olive's  relief  Steve  let  a  gust  of  laughter 
into  this  scented  colloquy. 

"Don't  you  stuff  Fern's  head  with  nonsense, 
Hoyt,"  he  charged.  "She'll  think  we  ought  to 
have  her  measured  for  a  halo.  She'll  pass,  as 
girls  run,  but  she's  no  saint.  Let's  have  a  go 
at  the  refreshments." 

The  gross  materialism  of  this  suggestion  pained 
his  daughter;  but  Hoyt  had  the  faculty,  so 
alluring  to  girlhood,  of  making  the  most  trivial 
act  seem  a  form  of  homage,  and  brought  ices 
to  them  with  the  air  of  a  grandee  serving  queens. 
Even  Olive,  who  had  known  few  such  attentions, 
felt  the  flattery  of  his  manner;  but  she  exercised 
a  strict  duennaship  and  rejoiced  when  Philippa 

[230] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

Blount  brought  a  tonic  breeze  to  the  group  which 
freshened  and  changed  the  atmosphere.  Hoyt, 
whom  she  had  never  met,  was  especially  affected 
by  her  coming.  Whether  dazzled  by  the  fame 
of  the  Blount  fortune  or  chilled  by  the  candor 
of  her  clear  glance,  he  held  himself  with  stiff  and 
unnatural  reserve  while  Philippa  explained  that 
she  could  not  come  to  them  till  night,  and  at 
the  first  opportunity  said  that  he  must  be  going. 

Fern's  face  overclouded. 

"But  you  have  seen  nothing  yet,"  she  objected. 

"Nothing!"  He  showed  his  white  teeth  in 
a  brilliant  smile.  "I  have  seen  what  I  came  to 
see." 

Steve  added  a  perfunctory  protest,  but  Hoyt 
pleaded  an  inexorable  engagement,  and,  followed 
by  Fern's  mournful  gaze,  lost  himself  quickly 
in  the  gay-hued  crowd. 

"I  don't  see  what  came  over  him?"  said  the 
girl,  naively  distressed.  "I  wonder  if  what  I 
said  about  the  flowers  could  have  offended  him?" 

"Don't  talk  such  silly  rubbish,"  rebuked  her 
mother,  in  alarmed  impatience.  "He  probably 
came  because  he  felt  he  had  to,  and  took  the 
first  chance  he  could  to  get  away." 

"Sensible  chap!"  put  in  Braisted,  with  diplo- 
matic intent.  "Why  should  an  able-bodied 
man  want  to  hang  about  a  round-up  like  this? 
I'm  going  to  pike  out  of  here  myself  as  soon  as 
I  get  the  glad  signal.  No  offense  to  you,  Miss 
Blount,"  he  added,  as  a  gallant  afterthought. 

[231] 


THE   WOMAN    OF    IT 

Philippa  laughed. 

"No  offense  taken,"  she  assured,  with  a 
glance  at  Fern,  who  dropped  disconsolately  upon 
a  camp-stool.  "I  shall  'pike'  myself  as  soon  as 
I  can.  I've  a  host  of  things  to  do  before  I  dine 
with  you." 

Signs  of  domestic  disturbance  were  plain,  and 
she  left  the  Braisted  group  to  itself;  whereupon, 
having  no  immediate  audience  save  her  family, 
Fern  gave  herself  frankly  over  to  melancholy. 
Steve  squared  his  jaw  and  exchanged  glances 
with  Olive. 

"Well,"  he  rallied,  briskly,  "if  Fern's  educa- 
tion is  finished,  I  move  we  adjourn.  I  have  a 
committee-meeting  at  four,  and  I  dare  say  that 
you,  Olive,  wouldn't  object  to  a  little  rest  at 
home  before  the  people  begin  to  come." 

"I  am  tired,"  she  admitted.  "The  carriage 
can  come  back  for  Fern  if  she  isn't  ready  now. 
What  do  you  say,  my  dear?" 

The  girl  rose  listlessly. 

"I  see  nothing  to  stay  for,"  she  replied. 
"We'll  go  after  I've  told  Abby  the  usual  white 
lies  about  hating  to  leave  her.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I'm  delighted." 

As  they  quitted  the  shadow  of  the  too-massive 
porte-cochere  Olive  recalled  the  forebodings  with 
which  she  had  first  left  this  place.  She  shrank 
from  asking  herself  precisely  what  manner  of 
woman  Beauchamp  Manor  had  fashioned.  It 
was  too  early  to  forecast  the  final  issue.  Fern's 

[232] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

character  was  still  plastic.  She  might  return 
from  the  West  as  unlike  the  girl  who  now 
cherished  Hoyt's  flowers  as  that  self-absorbed 
young  person  was  different  from  the  sweet- 
natured  child  of  last  autumn. 

But  the  Fern  of  the  present  blurred  the  out- 
lines of  the  Fern  who  might  be.  The  woman  of 
the  future  might  value  simplicity;  but  the  rest- 
less, fickle  girl  of  the  actual  hour  bowed  down 
to  the  showy  and  the  complex.  A  glimpse  of 
the  new  home  was  sufficient  to  banish  her  vapors, 
and  she  trailed  past  the  servant  into  the  neo- 
classic  splendors  of  the  hall  with  an  air  of  pro- 
prietorship which  filled  her  father  with  delight. 
With  the  arrival  of  the  first  callers — and  the 
vanguard  came  soon — she  sparkled  into  abundant 
life  and  gaiety. 

One  of  the  earliest  comers  was  old  Mrs. 
Tully. 

"Not  to  see  the  house,  my  dear,  but  to  watch 
the  others  see  it,"  she  confessed,  frankly.  "From 
what  I  hear,  your  first  Thursday  is  likely  to  be 
a  crush.  Two  papers  besides  the  Post  have  men- 
tioned it,  and  as  there  are  two  conventions  in 
town  you  can  count  on  several  people  you  do 
know  bringing  others  you  don't  know  and  don't 
want  to;  but  there  will  be  amusing  specimens 
to  offset  the  bores.  I  hope  the  family  skeleton 
is  in  a  safe  cupboard?  Nothing  that's  not  under 
lock  and  key  will  escape  inspection.  It  ought 
to  be  something  like  the  barbarians  taking 
16  1 233 1 


THE   WOMAN    OF    IT 

Rome,  which  is  one  of  the  events  of  history  I'm 
genuinely  sorry  to  have  missed." 

"I'm  not  much  of  a  Roman,"  said  Olive,  find- 
ing her  one  of  the  sheltered  corners  in  which  she 
delighted.  "Perhaps  Fern  might  pass  muster." 

Both  glanced  across  the  great  room  at  the  girl, 
who,  all  her  natural  grace  to  the  fore,  was 
making  small  talk  for  a  tongue-tied  congressional 
family  from  Idaho  which  fixed  her  with  a  col- 
lective bovine  stare  and  responded  in  throaty 
monosyllables. 

"Yet  they've  all  spent  more  time  in  Wash- 
ington than  Fern,"  said  Mrs.  Tully. 

"They  haven't  had  her  schooling." 

"It  wouldn't  matter  a  pin's  worth  if  they  had. 
You  can't  make  something  out  of  nothing,  even 
with  money  to  blind  folks'  judgment.  And 
don't  give  Beauchamp  Manor  credit  for  Fern's 
best  qualities.  She  got  those  straight  from  you, 
my  dear.  But  here  comes  a  fresh  instalment  of 
Goths  and  Vandals.  Go  and  defend  your  house- 
hold gods.  That  emaciated  person  in  stripes 
would  be  nosy  enough  to  stick  a  pin  in  a  cork 
leg.  I  caught  her  hunting  for  the  sterling  mark 
on  her  teaspoon  at  one  of  the  embassies  last 
week." 

From  that  moment  it  deluged  visitors  as  if 
a  dam  had  burst  somewhere  without.  The  few 
friends  who  came  to  see  Olive  for  her  own  sake, 
if  not  turned  baffled  from  the  door,  found  them- 
selves shouldered  and  trampled  by  a  mob, 

[234] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

sprung  no  one  knew  whence,  which  poured  in 
merely  to  view  her  possessions,  all  the  fabled 
treasures — paintings,  sculptures,  tapestries,  bibe- 
lots, architectural  splendors — which  the  brief 
Colburn  regime  had  heaped  together  and  jeal- 
ously screened  from  the  general  eye.  Ranging 
the  house  as  if  it  were  a  public  gallery,  the  throng 
pried,  poked,  fingered,  and  assayed  everything 
in  the  larger  apartments,  and  was  only  checked 
by  the  servants'  vigilance  from  invading  the 
sleeping-rooms  and  the  kitchens.  One  hardy 
explorer,  indeed — Creevey  afterward  described 
her  as  thin  and  striped — by  feigning  illness,  did 
succeed  in  penetrating  the  suite  of  the  rumored 
sunken  bath,  which  thenceforth  became  a  topic 
of  engrossing  interest  in  circles  where  sunken 
baths  touch  the  imagination. 

All  pretense  of  serving  the  tea,  which  Creevey's 
British  taste  prescribed,  was  abandoned.  Even 
had  it  hungered,  only  a  miracle  could  have  fed 
the  multitude.  But  no  one  thought  of  food. 
It  was  enough  to  feast  the  greedy  eye  at  first; 
then,  as  the  pack  grew  denser,  self-preservation 
became  the  ruling  passion.  Two  women  fainted 
in  a  press  about  the  dining-room  fireplace,  caused 
by  some  one's  statement  that  it  had  once  be- 
longed to  a  Bourbon  king  of  unsavory  reputa- 
tion; another  victim  was  stripped  of  her  dress- 
skirt;  while  a  third  anonymous  martyr — as  the 
bushel  of  fans,  gloves,  cheap  jewelry,  hair-pins, 
puffs,  handkerchiefs,  and  miscellaneous  debris 

[236] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

collected  later  bore  witness — left  the  field  of  battle 
bereft  of  a  luxuriant  switch  of  Titian  hair. 

For  upward  of  three  sweltering  hours  this 
endured.  Then  the  tide  ebbed,  seeping  out 
slowly  at  first,  but  presently  gathering  momen- 
tum, and  gushing  forth  with  the  meaningless 
force  of  its  influx  to  leave  Olive  beached  in  crim- 
son collapse  on  a  Venetian  chair  never  designed 
to  hold  human  frame,  and  Fern,  her  gown  a 
shapeless  rag,  but  her  Abercrombian  bearing  at 
its  haughtiest,  towering  like  an  insulted  goddess 
in  the  center  of  the  stricken  drawing-room. 

"Are  they  all  gone?"  asked  Olive,  feebly. 

Fern  turned  a  stony  countenance  upon  her. 

"We  are  disgraced,"  she  proclaimed,  in  hol- 
low tones.  "Do  you  hear  me?  Disgraced!" 

"There,  there,"  soothed  her  mother,  noting 
her  white,  strained  face.  "Go  and  lie  down  be- 
fore you  change  for  dinner.  You're  all  tuckered 
out,  poor  child." 

"Child!"  She  pounced  upon  the  endearing 
word  with  scorn.  "I'm  not  such  a  child  as  to 
have  brought  this  upon  us.  We  shall  be  the 
laughing-stock  of  Washington,  and  it's  all  your 
fault.  Why  did  you  chum  with  everybody  at 
the  hotel,  and  accept  their  hideous  present,  and 
let  us  in  for  this?  You  might  have  considered 
my  social  future  here  a  trifle.  Things  shall  go 
differently  next  year,  I  promise  you.  If  you're 
not  competent  to  run  this  house  as  it  should  be 
run,  then  I — " 

[236] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

"Fern  Braisted!" 

The  stern  note  in  her  mother's  voice,  her  blaz- 
ing eyes,  cowed  the  rebel.  She  had  experienced 
nothing  like  it  in  her  whole  petted  life. 

"You  know  it's  true,"  she  whimpered. 

Olive  came  and  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  her 
shoulder. 

"One  word  more  and,  big  as  you  are,  I'll 
spank  you,"  she  warned,  her  voice  shaking  with 
mingled  grief,  anger,  and  fatigue.  "I've  had 
more  than  flesh  and  blood  can  stand." 

Fern  surrendered  forthwith  and  abandoned  the 
scene  in  tears ;  but  Olive  loathed  her  victory.  The 
one  bright  ray  in  the  enveloping  gloom  was  shed 
by  Creevey,  who  was  already  mustering  his 
forces  to  right  the  universal  disorder.  He  an- 
nounced that  the  Moor  had  come  to  irreparable 
harm. 


CHAPTER  XX 

BUT  there  was  the  evening  to  be  faced  some- 
how; Steve's  smart  dinner,  that  was  to 
show  Marshall  Blount's  daughter  how  the 
Braisted  household  could  do  things.  How  any 
kind  of  order  was  to  be  evolved  before  the  guests 
arrived  she  could  not  conceive;  but  as  she  her- 
self nervously  began  putting  this  and  that  to 
rights,  Creevey  advised  tea  or  a  pick-me-up  and 
bade  her  have  no  concern.  Despite  his  assur- 
ances, however,  she  lingered  anxiously  below, 
and  was  as  busy  as  the  busiest  when  the  lord 
of  the  ravaged  domicile  came  home. 

"Oh,  Steve!"  she  exclaimed,  as  he  suddenly 
loomed  over  her.  "I  so  wanted  to  have  things 
tidy  before  you  came!  Why  didn't  you  stay 
out  a  little  while  longer?" 

"Longer!  I'm  late  now."  He  stared  from 
her  hot  face  to  the  dust-cloth  in  her  hand,  and 
thence,  with  an  incensed  scowl,  toward  the  ser- 
vants, who  scattered  to  discreet  posts,  out  of 
sight,  if  not  of  earshot.  "What  in  God's  name 
is  the  meaning  of  this?" 

"We've  had  such  a  mess  to  clean  up,  Steve. 
We've  been — " 

[238] 


THE    WOMAN   OF    IT 

"Wipe  your  face,"  he  broke  in,  angrily. 
"You're  a  show." 

She  mechanically  obeyed,  using  the  dust- 
cloth  in  all  unconsciousness  for  the  purpose  till 
he  snatched  it  from  her  with  an  oath. 

"Why  are  you  making  a  nigger  of  yourself 
down  here?"  he  demanded.  "Haven't  we  help 
enough  to  look  after  things?  If  we  haven't,  I'll 
hire  more.  You  make  me  sick!  This  isn't 
the  truck-farm.  We're  in  Washington  and — " 

"But  you  don't  know  what's  happened." 

"I  don't  want  to  know.  Don't  you  realize 
that  people  will  be  coming  here  to  dinner  in 
three-quarters  of  an  hour,  and  that  you're  look- 
ing like  a  chimney-sweep?  Have  you  gone 

?$» 
^^~j  . 

"  Yes;  crazy  like  the  rest  of  you,"  she  answered, 
too  spent  to  explain  further.  "It  is  just  like  a 
bedlam  here,  and  I  might  as  well  be  a  lunatic, 
too.  It  would  serve  you  right  if  I  went  straight 
to  bed  and  let  you  have  your  party  to  yourself." 

"Go  to  bed  if  you  want  to,"  he  retorted.  "I 
guess  Fern  won't  have  any  trouble  in  filling 
your  place.  If  she  does,  Mrs.  Estabrook  can 
give  her  a  hint  now  and  then.  Turn  in,  by  all 
means." 

She  would  be  present  if  dying,  after  that; 
but  her  manner  left  Steve  in  doubt,  and  a  little 
later  he  made  an  excuse  to  enter  her  dressing- 
room  and  spy  out  the  situation.  Finding  her 
really  preparing  for  dinner,  he  ventured  one  or 

[239] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

two  amiable  remarks  on  a  neutral  topic,  and, 
receiving  replies  equally  temperate,  handed  her 
a  card  whereon  he  had  penciled  a  little  diagram. 

"The  seating  arrangement  for  to-night,"  he 
explained,  tacitly  burying  the  quarrel  after  the 
habit  of  the  long-married.  "I  forgot  to  speak 
of  it  before.  Tully,  being  an  old  member  of 
the  House,  I've  given  the  place  of  honor  beside 
you,  and  Estabrook  will  take  your  other  hand. 
Their  wives  will  flank  me.  I  don't  want  Miss 
Blount  to  get  the  idea  that  she  is  any  better 
than  the  others.  Any  suggestions?" 

Olive  took  up  the  card,  and  by  this  token 
ratified  the  peace. 

"I  would  like  it  better  if  you  hadn't  put  Fern 
next  to  Mr.  Hoyt,"  she  said. 

"She  picked  her  own  place.  I  had  her  on  the 
other  side  of  the  table." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"She  said  Philippa  didn't  seem  to  take  to 
him  at  the  school.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  it 
wouldn't  mend  matters  to  argue  about  it." 

"No,"  agreed  his  wife.  "It  only  pours  oil  on 
the  fire.  You  saw  that  in  Ben  Halsey's  case." 

"Oh,  that  reminds  me,"  said  Braisted,  turn- 
ing at  the  door.  "Now  that  all  that  nonsense 
between  him  and  Fern  is  done  with,  I'm  thinking 
of  offering  Halsey  a  couple  of  rooms  in  the  house 
so  I  can  have  him  handy.  Any  objection?  He 
would  take  his  meals  out." 

"Of  course  I  don't  object.     But  I  thought 

[240] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

you  expected  him  to  leave  you,  now  that  he's 
been  admitted  to  the  bar.  Doesn't  he  intend 
to  take  up  with  Mr.  Blount's  offer?" 

"No.  I  thought  he'd  clinch  the  matter  when 
Blount  was  in  Washington;  but  he  said  he'd 
prefer  to  stick  to  me.  Sure  you  don't  mind  his 
being  in  the  house?" 

"No."  The  little  word  veiled  a  deep  satis- 
faction. 

"  Then  I'll  'phone  him  now,  and  he'll  probably 
arrange  to  come  in  right  away.  He  has  taken 
a  lot  of  the  Tuscarora  grind  off  my  shoulders — 
routine  matters,  I  mean — besides  his  regular 
work.  He's  a  smart  fellow  when  it  comes  to 
business.  You  always  know  where  to  find  him." 

At  another  time  the  news  would  have  excited 
her;  but  the  cumulative  woes  of  the  day  had 
left  her  worn  and  apathetic.  So  dull  did  she 
feel  that  it  failed  to  rouse  her  when,  on  entering 
the  drawing-room,  she  perceived,  by  Fern's  con- 
fusion and  Steve's  black  look,  that  the  girl  had 
been  dilating  upon  "the  disgrace."  Fearful  lest 
her  mother  might  carry  her  dire  threat  of  the 
afternoon  into  immediate  execution,  Fern  edged 
nearer  her  father,  who  showed  signs  of  im- 
pending explosion;  but  the  arrival  of  the  first 
guests  deflected  the  rising  storm,  and  the  Brai- 
sted  family  presented  a  picture  of  complete 
concord  when  Philippa  Blount  and  the  Esta- 
brooks  entered  together. 

"Why,   you   don't   look   as   if   anything   had 

[241] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

happened!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Estabrook,  with  a 
comprehensive  survey  of  the  room.  "You  all 
seem  to  have  your  normal  number  of  features 
and  limbs." 

"Nothing  has  happened,"  said  Fern,  in  frosty 
discouragement  of  this  theme.  "Did  you  finish 
all  your  errands,  Philippa?" 

Mrs.  Estabrook  was  not  to  be  side-tracked. 

"But  something  certainly  did  happen,"  she 
insisted,  drowning  Philippa's  reply.  "Every- 
body is  discussing  the  perfectly  shameful  way 
your  hospitality  was  abused.  Why,  they  say 
a  pack  of  three-day  excursionists,  who  knew 
neither  you  nor  your  friends,  flocked  in!  Those 
who  hadn't  heard  of  the  Colburn  place  at  least 
knew  of  the  Braisted  Relish.  When  I  drove  up 
at  half -past  five,  even  the  carriageway  was 
jammed." 

Her  husband  perceived  the  topic  to  be  dis- 
tasteful, and  tried  to  change  it. 

"The  house  certainly  justifies  its  reputation," 
he  said,  pleasantly.  "Tell  me  about  some  of 
these  treasures,  Braisted.  They  make  the  Co- 
lonial relics  in  the  National  Museum  look  like 
goods  just  off  the  counter." 

"So  I  only  sent  in  cards,"  completed  his  wife, 
raising  her  voice.  "My  gown  would  have  been 
utterly  ruined  if  I  had  come  in." 

Steve  gratefully  followed  Estabrook's  lead. 

"Some  of  the  things  aren't  as  old  as  they  look," 
he  said,  making  sure  that  Creevey  was  out  of 

[2421 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

hearing  before  he  stole  his  thunder.  "Lawrence 
Colburn  was  played  for  a  sucker  several  times. 
There  are  bogus  Roman  tear-bottles  in  that 
cabinet  behind  you,  for  example,  and  some  of 
the  scarabs — those  beetle-shaped  stones  there, 
Egyptian,  you  know — are  fakes,  too.  Out  in  the 
dining-room  there's  a  wedding  chest  that  looks  as 
if  Adam  might  have  given  it  to  Cain;  but  acids 
gave  it  age  and  birdshot  made  the  worm-holes." 

Estabrook  looked  his  surprise. 

"I  didn't  suppose  you  were  up  on  such  things," 
he  said. 

"Oh,  I'm  only  a  greenhorn,"  laughed  Braisted, 
deciding  to  retreat  before  he  exposed  his  igno- 
rance. "Art  got  lost  in  the  shuffle  when  I  was 
educated." 

"Modest,  as  always,"  said  Hoyt,  entering 
briskly.  "Our  friend  Steve  knew  very  well 
what  he  was  buying  here.  I  am  certainly  re- 
lieved to  find  this  temple  of  loveliness  intact." 

Braisted  frowned  on  his  latest  guest. 

"What  did  you  expect?"  he  retorted.  "This 
isn't  a  cottage  to  be  upset  by  a  handful  of 
callers." 

"A  handful!  Everybody  says  you  repelled 
an  invasion." 

"So  I've  told  him,"  chimed  in  Mrs.  Esta- 
brook. "I  saw  the  mob  about  the  door  myself. 
Yet  they're  good-naturedly  trying  to  pretend 
that  a  mere  handful  of  people  dropped  in  to 
tea!" 

[243] 


THE   WOMAN    OF   IT 

Creevey  entered  with  a  tray  of  cocktails,  and 
at  last  the  hateful  subject  seemed  buried.  Olive 
had  -no  sooner  indulged  this  hope,  however,  than 
the  coming  of  the  Tullys  heralded  its  inglorious 
resurrection. 

"We're  late— I  admit  it,"  wheezed  Mr.  Tully, 
mopping  his  bald  head  as  he  trundled  across  the 
room  to  Olive.  "But  you  must  blame  your- 
self, Mrs.  Braisted.  If  you  will  send  my  wife 
home,  at  her  time  of  life,  looking  as  if  she  had 
been  on  a  spree,  you  must  take  the  consequences." 

Olive  turned  anxiously  on  her  friend. 

"Oh,  I  hope  you  weren't  hurt?"  she  said. 
"I  never  caught  sight  of  you  after  we  spoke  in 
the  beginning." 

"Don't  mind  that  fat  man's  jokes,  my  dear," 
charged  Mrs.  Tully.  "He  is  at  his  usual  prank 
— trying  to  shift  his  tardiness  to  other  shoulders." 

"Of  all  the  ingratitude!"  ejaculated  her  hus- 
band. "Why,  I  only  made  her  lie  down — " 

"So  that  you  could  dawdle,"  whipped  in  the 
sprightly  veteran.  "I  wasn't  a  particle  tired, 
Olive,  and  I  haven't  been  so  entertained  in  ages. 
I  could  not  thank  you  when  I  left,  for  I  stepped 
out  of  a  window." 

Fern  was  aghast. 

"You  fell?"  she  cried. 

"Not  at  all.  I  took  a  deliberate  short  cut.  I 
couldn't  wait  to  use  the  door."  Whereupon, 
noticing  her  host's  face  redden  with  mortifica- 
tion, she  added,  quickly:  "You  know  we  always 

[244] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

left  the  White  House  by  a  window  in  the  old 
crowded  days  before  the  place  was  remodeled. 
That  was  what  gave  me  the  idea." 

Mr.  Tully,  with  masculine  obtuseness,  would 
have  continued  the  theme;  but  his  wife  silenced 
him  by  an  obscure  signal,  and,  Creevey  announc- 
ing dinner,  the  belated  company  filed  into  the 
dining-room  and  allowed  the  eventful  afternoon 
to  sink  into  historical  perspective. 

Grateful  as  was  this  surcease  to  Olive,  how- 
ever, it  did  not  tend  to  enliven  the  dinner,  for 
no  topic  of  common  interest  succeeded.  The 
formal  magnificence  of  the  great  room  seemed 
to  strangle  the  spirit  of  sociability.  Not  even 
that  main  staple  of  Washington  conversation, 
ironic  gossip  of  celebrities,  which  Mrs.  Tully 
introduced,  could  thrive  in  this  rarefied  air,  and 
for  several  solemn  courses  Braisted's  guests 
engaged  in  hushed  dialogues  with  their  nearest 
neighbors.  Presently  even  these  efforts  one  by 
one  flickered  out  till  only  the  muted  voice  of 
Proctor  Hoyt,  flirting  with  Fern,  was  left  to 
cheer  the  gloom;  whereupon,  disconcerted  for 
once,  he  too  broke  off,  and  complete  silence 
blanketed  the  feast. 

There  was  something  hypnotic  in  that  pause. 
Every  one  sat  dumbly,  straining  to  utter  some 
light  quip,  some  frothy  piece  of  persiflage,  that 
would  tactfully  bridge  the  chasm,  but  though  one 
coughed,  another  blushed,  a  third  played  with 
her  rings,  a  fourth  scowled  villainously,  and  all 

[245] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

suffered,  an  evil  spell  gagged  and  tortured  the 
company  till  Olive,  possessed  of  an  idea  at  last, 
came  desperately  to  the  rescue. 

"Creevey,"  she  called,  "fetch  Mr.  Tully  some 
of  our  own  relish.  I  know  he  likes  it  with  his 
roast.  Leave  it  in  the  jar.  It  has  a  better 
flavor  that  way." 

The  chasm  was  bridged,  but  at  what  frightful 
cost!  From  that  innocent  jar  which  Creevey 
set  before  them,  Imperial  Relish,  like  a  malign 
genie  freed  from  bondage,  poured  and  poured 
till  it  seemed  to  swamp  the  universe.  Mr. 
Tully  led  the  way  with  a  gastronomic  rhapsody, 
in  which  the  famous  Braisted  product  echoed 
and  re-echoed  like  a  refrain.  No  such  boon,  he 
concluded,  had  been  added  to  the  pleasures  of 
the  table  in  a  generation.  Estabrook  thereupon 
indorsed  his  praise,  but  took  exception  to  the 
time  limit.  Surely  a  century  would  not  over- 
state the  period?  Yet  even  this  would  not  con- 
tent Proctor  Hoyt.  He  declared  that  as  a 
sauce  it  stood  the  peer  of  any  in  history,  and 
spoke  slightingly  of  the  banquets  of  Lucullus, 
which  had  lacked  this  truly  imperial  touch  of 
perfection.  He  added  that  he  personally  found 
it  ravishing  with  fish,  a  statement  which  gave 
a  fresh  turn  and  impetus  to  the  discussion.  Mrs. 
Estabrook,  it  seemed,  preferred  it  with  game; 
Mrs.  Tully  with  the  bean  of  her  ancestral  Maine; 
while  Philippa  Blount  remarked  that  her  fa- 
ther's chef  had  utilized  it  with  splendid  results 

[246] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

in  the  preparation  of  soup.  Then  the  amazing 
rise  and  growth  of  the  business  had  to  be  ex- 
haustively debated,  and  the  twin  themes  of 
Olive's  discovery  and  Steve's  genius  for  organiza- 
tion gave  Hoyt  a  chance  for  eulogy  to  which 
he  did  justice  till  the  coming  of  dessert. 

To  all  this  Stephen  Braisted  listened  with  a 
set  smile  for  the  talkers  and  a  wrathful  eye  for 
his  wife,  who  had  dumped  the  plebeian  flood 
upon  him.  Olive  could  perceive  nothing  amiss 
in  the  topic,  which  was  certainly  preferable  to 
silence;  but  she  saw  plainly  that  the  teeth  of 
her  husband  and  daughter  were  on  edge,  and, 
with  Hoyt's  peroration,  thankfully  told  herself 
that  the  last  possible  word  had  been  said.  At 
this  pass,  however,  it  was  given  to  Mrs.  Esta- 
brook  to  make  a  discovery. 

"Why,  you  have  changed  it  somehow,"  she 
cried,  bringing  her  glasses  to  bear  upon  the  un- 
lucky jar,  which  had  now  journeyed  to  her  place. 
"What  is  it  you've  done  to  it?  I  miss  some- 
thing." 

Braisted's  jaw  grew  more  square. 

"They've  been  experimenting  with  new  labels 
out  at  the  works,"  he  said,  shortly,  and  signaled 
Creevey  to  remove  the  inexhaustible  fount  of 
discussion  from  the  table. 

But  the  paragon  was  for  once  dilatory,  and 
the  delay  was  just  sufficient  for  Mr.  Tully  to 
solve  the  riddle. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed.     "It's  the  picture  we 

[247] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

miss — the  photograph  of  Stephen  Braisted,  which 
all  the  world  knows  so  well." 

"Steve!"  cried  Hoyt.  "You  surely  never 
sanctioned  that  change!  You  discharged  the 
wretch  who  perpetrated  it?" 

"I  can't  very  well  discharge  the  president  of 
the  company." 

"You  ordered  it  yourself?" 

"Yes." 

"What  modesty!     What- 

"Oh,  let's  drop  business,"  interrupted  Braisted, 
goaded  past  endurance.  "I  got  tired  of  seeing 
my  face  everywhere — that's  all.  It  wasn't  my 
idea  in  the  beginning." 

"No.  It  was  my  fault,"  avowed  his  wife,  in 
an  unnatural  voice  which  drew  all  eyes  upon 
her.  She  had  not  realized  till  this  moment  that 
he  had  been  swayed  by  the  children's  ridicule, 
and  the  discovery  put  her  beside  herself.  The 
culminating  blow  had  fallen.  Steve  was  ashamed 
of  the  thing  that  had  made  this  pomp  possible; 
he  was  ashamed  of  their  simple  history;  yes, 
ashamed  of  her.  "I  talked  him  into  it,"  she 
went  on,  in  a  colorless  monotone.  "I  thought 
it  was  something  to  be  proud  of.  I  wanted  him 
to  have  the  full  credit;  I  wanted  people  to  see 
what  the  man  looked  like  who  built  up  the  busi- 
ness. But  now—  She  paused,  brushed  an 
uncertain  hand  across  her  forehead,  then  added, 
wearily,  "Oh,  life  is  such  a  muddle  to  me!" 

She  pushed  back  from  the  table  as  she  ended, 

[248] 


and  Philippa  Blount,  with  quick  tact,  con- 
strued the  movement  as  a  signal  for  rising. 
Linking  her  arm  into  Olive's,  she  led  her  from 
the  room  with  light  talk  of  the  first  object  that 
met  her  eye.  The  older  woman  appreciated 
what  the  girl  had  done,  and,  as  they  presently 
sat  side  by  side,  pressed  her  hand  in  silent 
thanks.  Words  were  for  the  time  being  impossible. 
A  lethargy  in  which  nothing  much  mattered  fol- 
lowed her  moment  of  storm,  and  the  voices  of 
the  women,  gossiping  of  feminine  interests,  fell 
on  her  dull  ear  as  if  muffled  by  distance. 

And  it  was  the  same  when,  reeking  of  cigar- 
smoke,  the  men  joined  them.  The  constraint 
of  the  dinner-hour  had  passed;  but  the  chatter 
and  jests  and  laughter  wore  an  air  of  unreality. 
She  believed  them  a  sham  like  her  own  pretended 
interest  and  responses,  and  told  herself  that  pity 
for  her  family  and  contempt  for  her  were  the 
secret  thoughts  of  all.  What  booted  it  that 
Steve  paid  ostentatious  court  to  Ada  Estabrook, 
or  that  Fern  and  Proctor  Hoyt  withdrew  to 
far  corners?  All  seemed  ghostly  shapes  in  a 
mist. 

By  and  by  she  beheld  them  gathered  in  the 
hall  for  the  parting.  There  was  a  moment  of 
vague  thanks,  good  wishes,  and  farewells  on  the 
threshold;  an  embrace  from  Philippa  which 
should  have  been  Fern's;  a  kiss  from  her  child 
which  was  cold  beside  the  last  look  she  bent 
upon  Hoyt;  a  nod  from  her  husband,  and  they 

17  [ 249 ] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

were  off.     Then  Creevey  shut  the  great  door  and 
left  her  to  herself. 

Gone!  All  of  them!  She  sank  upon  one  of 
the  stone  seats  of  the  white,  comfortless  hall  and 
stared  around  with  a  swift  and  appalling  realiza- 
tion of  her  loneliness.  Somewhere  in  the  dis- 
tance she  heard  a  murmur  of  servants'  voices; 
but  the  sound  brought  no  solace.  Paid  instru- 
ments of  luxury,  they  were  as  remote  as  these 
still  marbles  in  their  niches,  gods  of  an  earlier 
time  indifferent  to  human  pain.  Hot  tears  shut 
their  serene  brutality  from  sight.  Thereupon, 
when  even  her  own  Deity  of  Compassion  seemed 
to  deny  her  comfort,  she  felt  a  warm  touch  at 
her  fingers,  and,  opening  her  eyes,  found  the  ugly 
muzzle  of  her  son's  dog  thrust  against  her  knee. 
Repulsed  again  and  again,  whimsical  chance  sent 
him  now  to  triumph.  The  warm  tongue  at  her 
finger-tips  conquered  Olive.  Fearful  no  longer, 
she  pressed  the  grotesque  face  thankfully  to  her 
own. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IT  was  long  before  she  slept,  and  when  sleep 
came  it  brought  no  respite  from  anxiety. 
Whether  she  dreamed  or  stared  wakefully  into 
the  dark,  she  ever  faced  a  crisis  where  old  pre- 
cepts were  of  no  avail.  Nor  did  the  dawn  bring 
comfort.  She  brooded  over  the  still  city,  watch- 
ing the  great  dome  turn  from  gray-pink  to  ruddy 
gold;  but  though  all  lay  steeped  in  quietness, 
the  scene  had  no  message  of  peace  for  her.  Vain 
also  was  her  restless  pacing  of  the  awakened 
house.  The  strange  furnishings  at  every  hand 
thrust  her  problem  back  upon  her.  Nothing 
suggested  a  solution. 

After  she  had  made  a  pretense  of  breakfasting 
she  went  into  the  formal  garden  with  Eli,  self- 
invited,  padding  worshipfully  at  heel;  but  the 
fauns  and  satyrs  were  as  indifferent  as  the  pagan 
company  indoors,  and  the  sporting  Tritons,  blow- 
ing their  interlacing  streams,  teased  alike  her 
eye  and  ear.  The  trig  precision  of  the  spot  re- 
pelled her.  By  garden  she  meant  a  half- wild, 
bee-haunted  corner  given  over  to  lavender  and 
sweet-william,  asters  and  nasturtiums,  with  sun- 
flowers and  hollyhocks  standing  sentinel  by  the 

[251] 


THE   WOMAN   OF   IT 

wall.  Scarcely  a  bloom  brightened  this  place  of 
gravel,  box,  and  shining  stone.  Then  a  river 
breeze  stirred  a  proper  little  cypress  in  a  classi- 
cal jar,  and  its  faint  scent  awoke  a  memory,  and 
the  memory  prompted  a  desire.  Going  within, 
she  ordered  her  carriage,  and  presently,  the  dog 
still  attending,  she  went  down  to  it  and  bade 
the  man  drive  to  a  certain  cemetery  in  a  ravine 
of  the  outlying  hills. 

Some  obscure  racial  instinct  had  all  her  life 
led  Olive  to  frequent  graveyards.  These  haunts 
were  never  sad  to  her,  and,  unless  she  happened 
on  a  burial,  seldom  suggested  death.  Peace 
was  the  dominant  note  of  their  influence,  and 
the  place  whither  she  was  bound  had  within  its 
tranquil  precincts  a  spot  which  touched  her 
imagination  beyond  any  other  she  knew.  Girt 
by  a  circle  of  somber  trees  that  shut  it  in  as 
jealously  as  if  it  lay  in  a  wilderness,  this  bit 
of  earth  contained  on  the  one  side  a  massive 
stone  bench,  and  over  against  it,  seated  on  a 
low  pedestal  with  the  severest  of  backgrounds, 
the  .shrouded  figure  of  a  woman  wrought  in 
bronze.  Olive  had  heard  it  called  by  various 
names,  and  knew  it  for  a  famous  work  of  a  man 
of  genius;  but  she  never  associated  it  with  its 
sculptor,  or  indeed  with  any  human  hands.  Her 
own  name  for  the  hooded  mystery  was  Resigna- 
tion, and  it  was  with  a  craving  to  search  out  its 
secret  that  she  resorted  to  it  now  in  her  hour  of 
stress. 

[252] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

To-day,  somehow,  it  sounded  a  new  note. 
She  had  never  before  looked  upon  it  save  toward 
evening,  and  this  special  morning  of  intense 
blue  sky,  warm  wood  scents,  and  countless  re- 
minders of  teeming  life  from  feathered  and  creep- 
ing things,  softened  the  stern  melancholy  which 
had  hitherto  attended  the  bronze  woman's  ac- 
ceptance of  events,  and  bestowed  for  the  hour 
at  least  a  quiet  content  in  sacrifice.  Struck  by 
this  change,  Olive  sat  long  in  half-mystical 
wonder  before  the  still  figure,  asking  how  this 
boon  might  become  her  own.  If  self-abnegation 
could  earn  content,  then  surely  she  deserved  it. 
Had  she  not  striven  all  these  last  weary  months 
to  be  unselfish?  Her  hard- won  home  was  dear 
to  her;  but  for  her  family's  sake  she  had  left 
it.  The  city  had  daunted  and  humiliated  her; 
but  for  their  sake  she  had  toiled  to  adapt  her- 
self to  its  ways.  That  she  might  do  them  credit 
she  had  tried  to  recast  her  lifelong  habit  of 
thought,  her  faulty  speech,  even  her  physical 
frame;  but  to  what  end?  Do  what  she  would, 
she  ever  fell  short  of  their  demand.  Where 
she  looked  for  praise  they  flouted;  when  she 
hoped  for  respite  they  told  her  there  must  be 
no  turning  back.  Was  this  place  of  strange 
gods  to  be  henceforth  her  portion?  Must  she 
stand  passively  by  and  see  her  husband  and  son 
go  mad  with  Mammon-worship,  her  daughter 
pledge  body  and  soul  to  the  Moloch  of  social 
ambition?  Yet  how  could  she  help  herself  or 

[253] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

them?  How  could  she  stay  the  folly  of  these 
bewitched  ones  who  blushed  for  the  source  of 
their  uplifting  and  for  her?  What  word  of  hers 
would  they  heed? 

Presently  the  dog  at  her  feet  stirred  and  lifted 
his  head,  and  an  instant  later  her  less  acute 
ear  heard  a  step  on  the  path  outside  the  green 
barrier.  Then,  clad  in  sober  gray,  into  the  lit- 
tle enclosure  stepped  a  woman  who  started  as 
if  at  this  hour  she  had  felt  assured  of  solitude. 
Dazed  by  her  long  scrutiny  of  the  sunlit  statue, 
Olive  did  not  at  once  recognize  the  new-comer; 
but  when,  after  a  second's  hesitation,  she  smiled 
and  advanced  with  outstretched  hand,  she  iden- 
tified her  as  the  mistress  of  the  White  House. 

"Do  you  come  here  at  this  time,  too,  Mrs. 
Braisted?"  she  asked.  "It  tells  another  story 
in  the  early  morning,  doesn't  it?" 

Olive  turned  again  toward  the  bronze. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "I  was  thinking  a  while 
ago  that  she  looks  almost  contented,  though  I 
can't  see  why  she  should.  The  morning  hasn't 
made  any  real  difference  in  her  lot.  Last  night's 
sorrow  is  still  there.  But  how  foolish  you  must 
think  me,"  she  checked  herself.  "I  talk  as  if 
she  were  alive." 

"And  so  she  is,  like  every  work  of  true 
genius.  It's  because  of  her  vitality,  her  hu- 
manity, that  she  touches  and  helps  us.  I  like 
to  see  her  in  this  rare  morning  mood,  when  she 
expresses  something  that  the  sculptor  never 

[254] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

intended;  but,  after  all,  her  other  message  is 
the  one  we  need.  She  was  not  meant  to  look 
contented,  you  know.  But  you've  heard  the 
story?" 

"No." 

She  told  it  simply:  the  well-known  story  of  a 
husband's  terrible  bereavement  and  fathomless 
grief. 

"Agony,  despair,  hopeless  loss — those  were 
the  things  he  charged  the  sculptor  to  express,  and 
he  has  expressed  them  masterfully.  We  can't  face 
that  woman  who  has  lost  without  resolving  to 
bear  with  one  another  for  the  little  time  we  are 
here.  She  makes  us  want  to  be  sympathetic 
and  decent  and  kind  while  we  may." 

Olive  stared  at  the  statue  with  a  new  vision. 

"What  if  I  lost  them?"  she  murmured. 
"What  if  I  lost  them?" 

Her  companion  glanced  toward  her  expec- 
tantly, but  as  Olive  said  no  more  she  herself 
presently  ended  the  pause. 

"You  never  came  back  to  see  me,"  she  said, 
bending  to  pet  the  dog,  who,  snapping  amiably 
at  the  dancing  gnats,  stretched  himself  at  their 
feet.  "I  was  sorry." 

The  older  woman  faced  her  with  a  rising  flush. 

"I  was  ashamed  to  go  back,"  she  owned, 
bluntly.  "Don't  think  I  wasn't  grateful  to  you 
for  helping  me  out  of  my  blunder.  Oh,  I  was 
grateful  when — when  I  knew.  It  made  me  love 

you." 

[255] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"But  couldn't  you  see  I  wanted  you  to  re- 
turn?" 

"Yes.     I  believed  you  meant  what  you  said." 

"I  did  mean  it — I  mean  it  still.  Red  tape  is 
a  stifling  thing  to  me.  I  would  dodge  it  and 
run  away  from  it  always  if  I  could.  When  some- 
one who  dares  to  be  natural  tramples  it  under 
foot  I  am  glad." 

Olive  smiled  faintly. 

"My  trampling  days  are  over,"  she  said. 

"I  hope  .not." 

"You  hope  not!  Would  you  have  me  go  on 
blundering?" 

"I  mean  that  there  are  more  than  enough 
conventional  folk  in  the  world,  timid  souls  who 
will  conform  to  any  silly  rule  rather  than  appear 
odd." 

"But  I  want  to  be  like  other  people  in  things 
that  are  worth  while.  Yet  what  are  they?  I 
thought  I  knew  once." 

"Ah,  so  did  I.  But  now  it's  always  an  open 
question.  One  can't  go  comfortably  about 
labeling  things  *  worthy*  or  'worthless,'  more's 
the  pity!  Your  meat  may  be  my  poison.  For 
instance,  I  dislike  automobiles.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  most  of  my  friends  find  them  a  joy 
and  take  a  vast  amount  of  fresh  air  they  never 
had  leisure  for  before.  And  there  you  are. 
After  all,  we  must  live  in  our  age." 

Her  chance  illustration,  following  the  stern 
lesson  of  the  bronze,  struck  home  and  set  Olive 

[256] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

questioning  whether  she  had  done  her  family 
complete  justice.  Were  the  things  they  prized 
as  harmful  as  she  deemed  them?  Were  they 
not  simply  living  in  their  age?  And  if  so,  why 
should  not  she  live  with  them  and  meet  their 
problems  with  sympathy?  Here  was  the  root 
cause  of  her  failure  to  keep  step,  the  flaw  in  her 
sorry  attempt  to  mold  herself  to  her  surround- 
ings. She  had  lacked  sympathy,  and  had  there- 
fore gone  predestined  to  defeat;  she  had  been 
dragged  where  she  should  have  led.  A  great 
unexplored  continent  of  ideas  widened  before 
her,  and  the  bracing  tonic  of  a  definite  purpose 
filled  her  whole  being  with  a  new  energy.  There 
should  be  no  more  clinging  to  the  past  or  shrink- 
ing from  the  future.  Whatever  they  proposed, 
they  should  find  her  open-minded.  If  she  could 
not  feel  a  sympathetic  interest,  she  would  act  it. 

She  turned  radiantly  on  her  companion,  who 
had  for  an  interval  sat  busy  with  her  own  thoughts. 

"I've  found  what  I  came  for,"  she  said,  exult- 
antly. "Between  you" — she  nodded  toward 
the  statue — "I've  dropped  my  worries." 

"And  between  you,  so  have  I  mine!"  She 
rose  with  a  laugh.  "You  have  helped  me  to 
see  that  they  were  trifles." 

"I?"  Olive  clung  for  a  moment  to  the  friend- 
ly hand.  "How  did  I  help  you?" 

"By  giving  me  a  chance  to  talk  over  my  patch- 
work philosophy.  Good-by.  I  am  leaving  town 
soon,  but  we  shall  see  each  other  in  the  autumn. 

[257] 


You'll  come  back  to  me  then?  Promise  me  that 
you  will?" 

"I'd  like  to  see  anything  keep  me  away,"  said 
Olive. 

As  her  carriage  rounded  the  lofty  plateau  of 
the  Soldiers'  Home,  the  city,  embraced  by  its 
shining  river,  lay  before  her  in  a  shimmering, 
transparent  veil  of  summer  heat;  and  as  she 
picked  out  its  salient  landmarks  shouldering  up 
through  the  green — the  dominating  group  of 
Capitol  Hill,  the  soaring  obelisk  at  the  farther 
end  of  the  Mall,  the  wooded  heights  of  Arling- 
ton, the  observatory  at  Georgetown,  then,  hark- 
ing back  to  the  lower  foreground,  the  red  mo- 
notonous reach  of  the  Pension  Office,  huge  like 
its  roll,  and  the  white  gracious  structures  of  the 
newer  Washington  with  definite  ideals  of  civic 
beauty — it  came  to  Olive  that  she  looked  upon 
the  familiar  scene  with  changed  eyes.  Before 
this  moment  she  had  been  its  bond-slave;  now 
she  felt  a  free  agent  who,  if  she  might  not  turn 
the  tables  on  her  despot,  could  at  least  face  it 
on  terms  of  self-respect. 

And  even  as  she  confronted  the  city,  so  she 
re-entered  her  own  door.  When  the  man  who 
admitted  her  described  the  marvel  in  the  ser- 
vants' hall,  he  said:  "She  didn't  sidle  in  like  a 
poor  relation;  she  looked  as  if  she  owned  the 
shop,  and  reckoned  it  dirt  under  her  feet  at 
that."  Thenceforth,  from  Creevey  the  Great 
to  the  last  scullion  in  his  hierarchy,  the  house- 

[258] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

hold  heeded  the  change  and  sprang  to  do  her 
bidding  with  an  alacrity  which  so  far  only  Steve 
had  been  able  to  inspire.  It  was  Steve  him- 
self, however,  whom  she  most  wished  to  impress, 
and  she  waited  impatiently  for  his  return. 
Friday  brought  no  word  from  him,  though  an 
unrepentant  note  came  from  Fern.  The  girl 
made  no  allusion  to  their  estrangement;  but 
Olive  read  wounded  pride  between  the  lines  of 
her  stiff  little  chronicle  of  shopping  with  Philippa 
and  other  trivialities.  On  Saturday  Braisted 
wired  for  the  chauffeur  to  meet  an  afternoon 
train  and  to  bring  his  motoring  clothes  along. 

Olive  was  in  total  darkness  as  to  the  meaning 
of  these  plans;  but  she  had  no  doubt  about  her 
own.  Half  an  hour  after  the  receipt  of  the 
message,  which  Steve  had  addressed  to  Creevey, 
she  entered  a  shop  where  fashion  spoke  its  last 
word  and  price-marks  bore  no  relation  to  in- 
trinsic worth.  The  fruit  of  this  visit,  effectively 
set  off  by  the  leather  upholstery  of  Braisted's 
car,  met  the  eyes  of  that  astounded  gentleman 
as  he  issued  from  the  railway-station. 

"How  long  since  you  took  to  motoring?"  he 
exclaimed,  too  amazed  for  other  salutation. 

Olive  underwent  his  scrutiny  calmly,  and  her- 
self offered  no  greetings. 

"Not  long,"  she  said.  "My  costume  is  new, 
you  see." 

"And  expensive,  or  I'm  no  judge!"  He  ran 
his  eye  over  one  or  two  significant  details. 

[259] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"By  Tuscarora  standards,  yes.  But  we're 
not  living  in  Tuscarora  now,  as  you've  often 
said." 

His  perplexed  gaze  dropped  to  her  feet,  where 
Eli  Yale  lay  peacefully  coiled. 

"And  when  did  you  get  chummy  with  that 
brute  of  S.  J.'s?" 

Olive  bent  and  stroked  the  devoted  white 
head. 

"Thursday  night — after  my  other  chums 
left,"  she  returned.  "But  get  in,  Steve.  You 
are  keeping  that  line  of  cabs  waiting." 

He  entered  the  car,  but  bade  Victor  halt  at 
the  opposite  curb. 

"I  am  waiting  for  Hoyt,"  he  explained,  awk- 
wardly. "Business  took  him  over  to  New  York 
yesterday  morning,  and  so  I  had  his  company 
on  the  trip  back." 

His  news  was  as  surprising  as  it  was  unwel- 
come; but  she  hid  her  feelings. 

"How  nice!"  she  said.  "Did  he  see  Fern 
off,  too?" 

"Nobody  saw  her  off.  She's  still  in  New 
York  at  the  Blounts.'" 

"Still  in  New  York!" 

"Yes,  there  was  s'ome  hitch  in  the  programme. 
Hoyt  says  Marshall  Blount  often  changes  his 
plans  at  the  last  minute.  Fern  seems  to  think 
they'll  go  soon.  She  came  down  to  the  Waldorf 
last  night  and  had  dinner  with  us.  I  told  her 
to  bring  Miss  Blount,  but  she  came  alone. 

[260] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

Fern  thought  she  didn't  come  because  I  asked 
Hoyt.  I  don't  see  where  she  got  that  idea. 
S.  J.  was  with  us,  too,"  he  added,  quickly,  to 
head  off  inquiries  as  to  a  chaperonage,  which  it 
now  struck  him  had  been  rather  lax.  "We 
took  in  a  show." 

"How  jolly!" 

The  honeyed  tranquillity  of  her  manner  again 
drew  his  uneasy  stare. 

"You  don't  act  a  bit  natural,  Olive,"  he  said, 
with  a  shadow  of  apprehension.  "Do  you  feel 
well?" 

"Never  better,"  she  reassured.  "What  is 
keeping  Mr.  Hoyt?" 

"He  said  that  he  wanted  to  telephone.  If 
you're  in  a  hurry  to  get  home,  we'll — " 

"I'm  not  in  the  slightest  hurry  to  get  home. 
It's  a  perfect  day  for  a  spin.  I  quite  look  for- 
ward to  it." 

Braisted  coughed  and  raked  the  unpromising 
scene  for  inspiration. 

"I  hardly  think  you'd  care  about  the  jaunt  I 
had  in  mind,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  dream  you'd 
feel  like  motoring,  and  planned  to  run  out  to  a 
country  club  that  elected  me  to  membership 
the  other  day." 

Olive  beamed  approval. 

"I've  often  wished  to  see  what  a  country  club 
was  really  like." 

"Of  course  it  won't  be  very  pleasant  going 
with  a  stag  party." 

[261] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"I  sha'n't  mind.  Such  clubs  are  for  all  the 
family,  I  believe.  As  for  the  ride,  Mr.  Hoyt 
isn't  a  stranger,  and  I'm  beginning  to  know  you." 

"Eh!"  he  exclaimed,  doubting  his  ears. 

She  had  her  eyes  fixed  on  one  of  the  station 
exits,  and  appeared  to  miss  his  query. 

"If  the  party  seems  too  lopsided,"  she  added, 
reflectively,  "you  might  invite  another  woman 
to  balance  me.  I  dare  say  we  could  find  some- 
body at  the  Walden." 

He  made  a  wry  face. 

"I  dare  say  we  could.  Say  Mrs.  Pratt,  now! 
She'd  probably  enjoy  a  club  dinner  at  my 
expense." 

"I  had  Mrs.  Estabrook  in  mind,"  dropped 
Olive,  quietly.  "She  is  so  congenial." 

This  final  experiment  in  sympathy  left  Brai- 
sted  open-mouthed. 

"I  can't  make  you  out  at  all,"  he  confessed. 
"You  act  as  giddy  as  if  you'd  had  a  touch  of 
sun.  I  wouldn't  run  round  shopping  in  the  heat, 
if  I  were  you." 

Delighted  with  her  progress,  Olive  was  will- 
ing that  he  should  spin  any  theory  he  pleased. 
Indifference  had  vanished  from  his  bearing.  He 
even  held  himself  toward  her  with  the  alert 
deference  he  paid  other  women,  and  she  re- 
gretted that  she  had  not  from  the  outset  spiced 
their  married  life  with  a  hint  of  mystery. 

Then  Hoyt  had  his  turn.  Obviously  sur- 
prised to  see  her,  his  labored  greeting  came  to 

[262] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

an  abrupt  end  as  the  dog  thrust  his  blunt  head 
to  the  fore,  and  in  instinctive  dislike  unfleshed 
his  tusks.  Yet  Hoyt's  expression  at  this  pass 
was  an  impassive  mask  beside  the  face  he  turned 
on  Olive  when  she  asked  him  why  he  had  not 
brought  his  pretty  friend  along. 

"My  pretty  friend?" 

"We  can  put  her  down  wherever  she  likes.'* 

Steve  pricked  his  ears. 

"What's  that,  Olive?" 

"It  seemed  a  pity  for  Mr.  Hoyt  to  send  any 
friend  of  his  home  in  a  stuffy  cab  when  we  have 
all  this  room  to  spare." 

Struck  by  Hoyt's  manner,  Braisted  prodded 
him  with  a  playful  forefinger. 

"Pretty  woman?  Cab?  What's  all  this  mys- 
tery, anyhow?" 

Hoyt  shrugged  as  if  he  could  not  flatly  con- 
tradict one  of  the  softer  sex. 

"Perhaps  I  have  a  double,"  he  suggested. 

"A  double,  eh?  Well,  that's  less  inconvenient 
than  a  double  life." 

Having  achieved  this  piece  of  repartee  Braisted 
gave  his  handiwork  an  admiring  guffaw.  His 
merriment  found  no  echo  in  Hoyt,  but  Olive 
smiled,  and  her  smile  was  dry. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

OLIVE  was  certain  that  she  had  made  no 
mistake.  As  the  car  had  glided  to  the 
farther  curb  her  casual  glance  had  traveled  past 
a  vanload  of  trunks  toward  one  of  the  station 
exits,  and  for  an  instant  spied  Hoyt  and  the  mani- 
curist among  the  jostling  crowd.  At  the  instant 
her  eye  fell  upon  them  they  were  talking  angrily 
together,  she  with  sullen  bravado,  he  with  a 
mixture  of  authority  and  entreaty.  What  it 
signified  Olive  could  not  fathom,  nor  was  it  clear 
to  her  why  she  had  let  him  know  that  she  pene- 
trated his  deception.  It  was  seemingly  born  of 
instinct,  like  Eli's  curl  of  lip. 

She  felt  that  Hoyt  kept  furtive  watch  upon 
her,  and  was  not  surprised  to  have  him  allude 
to  her  discovery  when  Steve  presently  left  them 
for  a  moment  at  a  garage. 

"You  were  not  mistaken,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"I  know  it,"  she  answered.  "My  sight  is 
excellent." 

"I  was  still  upset  at  meeting  that  woman 
when  you  questioned  me.  We  had  quarreled. 
Perhaps  you  saw  that,  also?" 

"Yes." 

1264] 


"She  is  a  woman  I  have  helped  along  with 
money  now  and  then.  But  she  depends  on  me 
too  much,  and  I  have  lost  patience.  She  is 
making  herself  a  nuisance." 

His  dark  eyes  met  hers  boldly  as  he  made  this 
glib  explanation.  She  believed  it  a  falsehood; 
but  she  turned  the  subject  with  a  common- 
place reply  and  assumed  a  care-free  smile  for 
the  returning  Steve. 

"And  now  the  Walden,"  she  directed.  "I'm 
sure  we'll  find  Ada  at  home.  She  makes  it  a 
point  to  nap  every  afternoon.  An  excellent 
idea  it  is,  too." 

Braisted's  face  wore  the  look  of  dazed  con- 
cern that  had  swept  over  it  at  the  station. 

"Just  as  you  say,"  he  returned,  meekly. 

Alighting  at  the  hotel,  she  learned  that  Mrs. 
Estabrook  was  in  her  room,  and,  going  up-stairs 
unannounced,  she  came  upon  the  lady  indulging 
in  a  sly  cigarette. 

"Are  you  surprised  at  me?"  asked  the  cul- 
prit, gaily. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Olive. 

"You're  not?" 

"I've  often  smelled  tobacco  on  you.  It  seems 
to  cling  to  the  hair." 

"Bless  me!  I  must  be  more  careful.  But 
how  do  you  know  it  wasn't  due  to  my  husband?" 

"He  only  uses  cigars." 

Mrs.  Estabrook  laughed. 

"What    a    bright-eyes    you    are!"    she    said. 

18  [265] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Yes,  Dan  has  staid  ideas  about  cigarettes  and 
women  both,  and  I  seldom  smoke  before  him. 
Personally,  I  can't  see  why  any  rational  pleasure 
that  men  enjoy  should  be  denied  to  us.  Ameri- 
can men  are  so  daft  about  womanly  women  that 
it's  a  comfort  at  times  to  talk  to  a  broad-minded 
foreigner.  But  what  a  sweet  costume  you're 
wearing.  I've  just  bought  some  new  motoring 
things  myself  that  I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  use." 

Olive  told  her  that  an  opportunity  was  at 
hand,  and  with  secret  amusement  watched  the 
comedy  of  her  toilet.  Without  a.  shred  of  vanity 
herself,  this  middle-aged  flirt's  constant  parley 
with  the  mirror  stained  her  cheek  with  a  vicari- 
ous blush  for  the  follies  of  the  sisterhood.  If 
Ada  Estabrook  had  been  a  debutante  prinking 
for  her  first  ball  she  could  have  expended  no 
more  pains.  Had  it  been  a  month  or  two  ago 
Olive  would  have  suspected  her  of  dressing  for 
Steve;  but  she  had  latterly  grasped  the  truth 
that  Mrs.  Estabrook's  monomania  embraced 
the  whole  male  sex. 

"Proctor  Hoyt  will  be  with  us,"  she  said,  by 
way  of  testing  that  particular  male's  standing 
in  the  lady's  catholic  regard. 

"Will  he?"  The  change  of  intonation  was 
marked.  "I'm  so  glad.  He  is  such  good  com- 
pany when  he  lets  himself  go." 

"Does  he  ever  do  that?" 

"Oh,  often  with  me."  She  skilfully  guided  a 
.hat-pin  into  its  proper  channel.  "He  seems  to 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

feel  that  he  can  be  his  real  self.  It's  a  wonder- 
ful' thing  to  have  a  strong  man  reveal  his  real  self 
to  you,  Mrs.  Braisted." 

"I  dare  say." 

"Especially  such  a  man  as  Proctor  Hoyt.  He 
makes  me  think  of  Cecil  Rhodes.  He  has  such 
a  breadth  of  vision;  his  dreams  are  such  great 
dreams." 

Olive  felt  that  she  skirted  the  edge  of  a  revela- 
tion. What  did  the  woman  know?  Could  it 
be  that,  barring  her  out,  Steve  and  this  man  had 
admitted  Mrs.  Estabrook  to  their  confidence? 

"Dreams  and  business  don't  usually  mix,"  she 
returned,  carelessly.  "But  Steve  believes  that 
Proctor  Hoyt  will  amount  to  something  yet." 

"Oh,  don't  put  it  that  way,"  protested  Mrs. 
Estabrook,  drawing  on  her  gloves.  "He  amounts 
to  a  great  deal  already.  Napoleon  in  Corsica 
was  Napoleon.  A  few  months  from  now — " 
she  stooped  to  flick  a  raveling  from  her  gown, 
and  with  bated  breath  Olive  hung  on  her  con- 
clusion— "a  few  months  from  now  our  Corsican 
may  be  anything.  I'm  ready  at  last.  Do  you 
suppose  the  men  have  reached  the  swearing  stage?" 

On  the  contrary,  the  men  appeared  quite  con- 
tent with  the  delay.  They  had  strolled  up  the 
street,  and  were  so  engrossed  that  the  chauffeur 
sounded  his  horn  twice  before  they  turned. 

Mrs.  Estabrook  rallied  them  on  their  un- 
gallant  abstraction. 

"Two  women  discussing  spring  styles  couldn't 

[267] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

look  more  absorbed,"  she  said.  "What  are  you 
talking  about?" 

"What  do  people  usually  talk  about  in  this 
town?"  parried  Braisted. 

"Politics,  for  one  thing." 

"Yes?" 

"And  the  glories  of  Washington.  There  real- 
ly aren't  any  other  topics." 

"There's  more  than  a  little  truth  in  that," 
said  Hoyt.  "I  suppose  it's  a  sign  that  Wash- 
ington is  becoming  a  world  capital." 

Olive  felt  that  they  were  all  in  a  game  to  hood- 
wink her.  Mrs.  Estabrook  was  probably  well 
aware  what  they  had  discussed,  and  only  feigned 
ignorance  because  she  had  chatted  too  freely 
above  stairs.  Yet  it  was  by  no  means  clear  why 
she  should  be  party  to  their  enterprise.  Men 
with  a  real  secret  could  scarcely  pitch  upon  a 
sillier  confidante. 

Meanwhile  the  car  gathered  speed,  and  she 
recalled  that  she  was  now  an  enthusiastic 
motorist,  and  tried  to  look  the  part.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  she  did  suffer  less  than  on  the  memorable 
ride  to  Mount  Vernon.  She  wisely  fixed  her 
eyes,  not  on  the  death-courting  beings  in  the 
way,  but  upon  the  fleecy  summer  clouds,  dis- 
tant trees,  anything  remote  enough  to  let  her 
ignore  the  reckless  dance  of  the  nearer  landscape. 
Moreover,  the  dog,  which  had  added  to  the  dis- 
comforts of  the  earlier  ordeal,  now  lay  quietly 
at  her  feet,  an  adoring  friend. 

[268] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

The  country  club,  a  pleasant  spot  of  wide 
piazzas  and  lovely  rural  vistas,  they  found 
peopled  with  a  bright -hued  company  drawn 
by  the  brilliant  weather.  The  links,  the  tennis 
courts,  the  lawns,  the  restaurant  were  all  gay 
with  well-fed,  if  not  infallibly  well-bred,  beings 
of  assured  income,  and  Olive,  who  ever  watched 
others'  emotions  more  than  her  own,  saw  Steve 
instantly  preen,  swell,  and  take  on  a  majesty 
befitting  this  fine-feathered  gathering;  an  en- 
deavor in  which  he  was  ably  sustained  by  Mrs. 
Estabrook.  She  herself  would  have  felt  like  a 
barnyard  fowl  among  peacocks  but  for  the  moral 
prop  of  her  new  automobile  costume. 

"I'm  glad  you  bought  it,  Ollie,"  her  husband 
took  occasion  to  whisper.  "  Did  you  see  that  bunch 
of  swells  on  the  side  porch  sit  up  and  take  notice?" 

"No!  Did  they  really?"  she  asked,  absurdly 
pleased. 

"Yes.  I  heard  one  woman  say  it  looked 
French  enough  for  packing — if  you  know  what 
that  means?" 

The  awakened  Olive  saw  and  seized  a  chance 
for  wholesome  discipline. 

"Mercy,  what  a  break!"  she  admonished. 
"You  should  be  more  careful  here  in  Washing- 
ton, Steve.  What  the  woman  said  was  'Paquin' 
— my  coat  is  a  Paquin  model." 

Braisted  gasped. 

"How  should  I  know  what  the  dratted  lingo 
meant?" 

[269] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Ask  me  when  you  are  not  sure,"  said  his 
wife. 

They  encountered  nobody  with  whom  they 
had  more  than  a  bowing  acquaintance;  but 
their  party  was  sufficient  unto  itself,  and  the 
little  dinner  went  off  with  an  ease  and  sparkle 
which  made  the  sad  function  of  Thursday  night 
seem  funereal.  No  small  part  of  this  gaiety  was 
due  to  Mrs.  Estabrook,  who,  still  adhering  in 
practice  to  her  dictum  that  the  rational  pleas- 
ures of  men  should  be  enjoyed  by  women,  out- 
did even  Proctor  Hoyt  in  appreciation  of  the 
topaz,  ruby,  amber,  and  emerald  array  of  liquids 
which  Steve  held  that  no  properly  appointed 
dinner  could  do  without.  But  in  the  sequel, 
while  Hoyt  rose  blithely  at  the  suggestion  of  a 
stroll  in  the  gloaming,  a  wholly  irrational  lassi- 
tude seized  upon  his  table  companion,  which  led 
her  to  express  a  discreet  preference  for  some 
quiet  veranda  nook  whence  she  and  Olive  might 
overlook  their  progress. 

"The  fact  is,"  she  confided,  as  the  men  took 
themselves  off,  "I  had  a  tiny  sip  too  much,  and 
it's  gone  to  my  feet.  My  head  is  as  clear  as  a 
mountain  book." 

"You  mean  brook,  don't  you?" 

"But  I  said  brook — mountain  brook,"  in- 
sisted Mrs.  Estabrook.  "Don't  you  hear  well?" 

"Not  always,"  pacified  Olive.  "Suppose  we 
move  into  those  sheltered  corner  seats  out  of 
the  draught?" 

[270] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"It  was  imprudent  of  me,  of  course,"  ad- 
mitted Mrs.  Estabrook,  from  the  comforting 
depths  of  a  steamer-chair;  "but  they  all  looked 
so  pretty  in  the  glass.  I  always  think  of  poor 
dear  Keats's  line  about  the  'beaded  bubbles 
winking  at  the  brim.'  My  husband  says  I  ought 
to  take  the  wink  as  a  signal  to  stop;  but  poetry 
is  thrown  away  on  him.  A  lot  of  things  are 
thrown  away  on  him,"  she  added,  plaintively. 
"I  am  myself.  I  guess  you  see  that.  Every- 
body sees  it.  Why,  I  might  have  married  any 
man.  I  thought  Dan  was  going  to  have  a  career; 
but  it  wasn't  in  him.  He  can't  even  earn  money 
enough  to  do  things  in  the  right  way.  I  don't 
know  how  we'd  manage  if  I  hadn't  a  little  prop- 
erty in  my  own  name.  I've  always  hung  on  to 
it,  no  matter  what  Dan  owed.  A  good  thing  I 
have,  too !  Proctor  says  it  will  be  my  salvation." 
She  boggled  over  her  last  word,  introducing  a 
superfluous  "h"  that  arrested  the  flow  of  her 
thought.  "Beaded  bubbles,"  she  repeated  care- 
fully, as  a  test.  "I  couldn't  possible  have  said 
book  for  brook.  You  really  ought  to  see  a 
specialist  about  your  hearing,  Olive.  You'll 
let  me  call  you  Olive,  won't  you?  There 
shouldn't  be  any  formality  in  our  little  group. 
We  must  hang  together  or  we'll  hang  separately 
as  dear — dear  old  somebody  said." 

Olive  started.  What  did  the  fool  mean  by 
that? 

"Should  there,  Olive?" 

[271] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

"No,  no,"  she  replied,  absently. 

"Say  no,  Ada,  or  I'll  be  offended." 

"No— Ada." 

Would  she  not  be  justified  in  learning  what  she 
could?  Perhaps  a  single  prompting  word  would 
cause  this  brimming  fount  of  information  to 
overflow.  Yet  could  she  in  honor  trade  upon 
a  silly  woman's  unguarded  moment?  Then,  as 
honor  said  no,  Mrs.  Estabrook  obligingly  can- 
celed the  difficulty. 

"Lumber!"  she  said,  musingly.  "How  un- 
romantic  it  sounds!  Yet  what  a  tremendous  lot 
it  means  to  us!  I  couldn't  grasp  it  at  first.  It 
took  Proctor  Hoyt  to  make  me  see  what  a  Gol- 
conda  it  is.  What  a  man!  The  minute  I  laid 
eyes  on  him  I  felt  that  he  was  a  born  captain 
of  finance.  How  did  you  feel,  Olive?" 

"I?"  She  roused  herself.  " Oh,  I  don't  know. 
He  seemed  capable." 

"Capable!  My  dear  lady,  if  Morgan  or 
Rockefeller  did  what  he  is  doing  you'd  call  it 
genius.  If  the  Government  knew — "  She  paused 
and  fixed  her  auditor  with  a  look  of  abysmal 
caution.  "How  do  I  know  you're  really  one 
of  us?"  she  demanded. 

Olive  heeded  scruples  no  longer.  She  must  get 
to  the  bottom  of  this  thing  at  any  cost.  For  all 
their  sakes  she  must  know  whither  they  were 
bound.  Then  her  mind  leaped  to  an  intuition. 

"Will  the  name  Marshall  Blount  do  for  a 
password?"  she  returned,  coolly. 

[272] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

Mrs.  Estabrook  gave  a  little  laugh  of  relief. 

"You  are  in  the  know,  aren't  you?  Some- 
thing made  me  think  you  weren't.  I  guess  they 
didn't  want  us  to  talk  it  over.  Silly  of  them, 
wasn't  it?" 

Olive  agreed  with  her. 

"And  we  won't  let  them  know  we've  dis- 
cussed it,"  she  added.  "They  may  begin  to 
keep  things  dark  we  want  to  hear." 

Mrs.  Estabrook  hailed  the  suggestion  with 
warm  approval. 

"I'm  sure  they  don't  tell  us  everything  as  it 
is,"  she  stated,  with  an  aggrieved  pout.  "Of 
course,  the  money  I've  put  in  is  nothing  com- 
pared with  what  Steve — you  don't  mind  if  I 
call  him  Steve,  do  you?" 

"Call  him  anything  you  like,"  said  Olive, 
hastily.  "You  were  speaking  about  the  money 
you'd  invested." 

"Oh  yes.  I  don't  suppose  Dan  would  call  it 
an  investment,  he's  so  conservative.  He  knows 
nothing  about  it,  of  course.  Why  should  he? 
Isn't  the  money  my  own?  He'll  open  his  eyes 
when  I  get  it  back  several  times  over.  I  can 
hardly  wait  to  wave  the  check  in  his  face.  But, 
dear  me,"  she  exclaimed,  smothering  a  yawn, 
"I  am  positively  getting  sleepy  in  this  lovely 
country  air." 

This  did  not  suit  Olive.  There  were  many 
obscure  points  she  wanted  made  clear  while  this 
expansive  mood  lasted. 

[273] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"I  haven't  a  ghost  of  an  idea  when  the  deal 
is  to  go  through?"  she  remarked,  truthfully. 
"Have  you?" 

"No.  I've  asked  over  and  over  again,  but 
I'm  none  the  wiser.  At  first  Proctor  said  it 
would  surely  be  this  spring,  but  now  it  looks 
like  fall.  There  has  been  trouble — do  pardon 
my  yawns! — trouble  over  titles  and  things  that 
eat  up  money  and  still  more  money.  Do  you 
mind  if  I  take  a  nap?  I  simply  can't  keep  my 
eyes  open.  I  wonder  if  it  was  the  salad?  Some 
people  say  lettuce  is  narcotic." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

STARING  into  the  dusk,  Olive  strove  to  set 
her  thoughts  in  order.  The  piazzas  thinned 
out,  the  chatter  of  foyer  and  restaurant  waned, 
the  lamps  of  homing  motors  wound  in  a  long 
pageant  down  the  drive;  but  on  the  links  two 
ruddy  points  of  light  continued  to  mark  the 
bench  where,  heedless  of  time,  Steve  and  his  guest 
smoked  uncounted  cigars  and  plotted — what? 

It  was  like  a  dissected  puzzle.  Here  a  piece, 
there  a  piece,  offered  a  tantalizing  clue.  They 
were  playing  for  great  stakes,  it  was  certain.  Her 
husband's  hints  and  this  silly  sleeper's  babble 
made  that  fact  plain.  Money — there  was  no 
telling  how  much — had  been  spent  to  gain  still 
more  money.  What  Mrs.  Estabrook  had  meant 
by  "lumber"  she  could  not  guess.  That  section 
of  the  puzzle  would  not  fit  into  place.  It  was 
clear  enough,  though,  that  these  queerly  assorted 
schemers  had  obtained  control  of  something  of 
value  to  Marshall  Blount,  something  of  value, 
perhaps,  to  the  Nation.  "If  the  Government 
knew — !"  What  else  could  that  allusion  mean? 
Was  Steve,  a  sworn  servant  of  the  people,  trying 
to  overreach  his  masters? 

[2751 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

The  lights  down  by  the  putting  green  shifted 
position,  and  began  to  zigzag  toward  the  club- 
house, and  she  shook  Mrs.  Estabrook  awake  to 
provide  the  conversational  small  change  of  which 
she  knew  herself  bankrupt.  She  feared  that  if 
she  spoke  at  all  her  alarm  would  betray  itself, 
and  she  still  knew  too  little  for  that.  Her  new 
attitude  toward  Steve  was  the  only  one  that 
could  avail. 

The  wisdom  of  this  course  justified  itself  be- 
fore she  slept.  Braisted  was  in  fine  fettle  during 
the  homeward  ride,  and  even  after  they  dropped 
the  others  continued  to  chat  in  the  old  spirit  of 
comradeship  which  had  so  eased  the  burden  of 
their  lean  years.  The  same  genial  humor,  more- 
over, possessed  him  an  hour  later  when,  some 
errand  taking  her  past  the  library  door,  she 
spied  him  poring  over  an  atlas. 

"See  here,  Ollie,"  he  called. 

She  went  to  his  side. 

"Yes,  Steve." 

"Let  me  show  you  something." 

She  saw  that  the  volume  lay  open  at  the  map 
of  a  far  Western  State  which  had  been  one  of  the 
geographical  bugaboos  of  her  childhood. 

"I  never  could  pronounce  those  Indian  names," 
she  said. 

The  man's  blunt  forefinger  made  a  slow  ex- 
cursion among  the  pink,  green,  and  yellow  county 
divisions. 

"There  it  is,"  he  said,  coming  to  a  halt. 

[276] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"What?" 

"Opportunity.  Wealth  for  the  taking — enor- 
mous wealth." 

She  realized  that  here  beyond  doubt  was  the 
Golconda  of  Ada  Estabrook's  vague  boasts ;  but 
she  held  herself  in  check. 

"Mines?"  she  queried. 

"Yes;    mines,  too." 

"Too?" 

"  I  mean  that  there  is  timber  first  of  all — trees 
such  as  you  never  lay  eyes  on  here  in  the  East. 
The  best  we  can  show  are  second  growth.  This 
is  the  forest  primeval  kind  of  thing  that  Bryant 
wrote  about." 

"It  was  Longfellow." 

"Was  it?  Well,  no  matter.  The  important 
point  is  that  it's  timber  of  the  first  quality  just 
begging  to  be  marketed.  And  look  here!"  His 
finger  navigated  a  winding  stream  and  came  to 
anchor  in  a  bright  blue  gulf.  "That's  the  route 
to  tidewater — a  river  that  is  a  river." 

He  looked  up  smilingly  for  her  appreciation 
of  the  stirring  theme,  and  she,  remembering  her 
resolve,  smiled  bravely  back. 

"Anybody  would  think  you'd  actually  seen 
it,  Steve." 

"I've  been  there  in  my  mind  times  enough. 
But  timber  isn't  the  whole  story.  You  guessed 
mines,  and  you  guessed  right.  There's  iron  there, 
and  coal — no  telling  how  much.  And  there's 
water-power.  Think  of  it!  Lumber,  iron,  coal, 

[277] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

water-power — any  of  them  spells  riches.  Com- 
bined— "  He  shut  his  fist  in  graphic  illustra- 
tion. 

She  trembled  at  that  gesture.  It  was  lawless, 
predatory,  cruel. 

"But  if  you  know  about  it,  other  people  must," 
she  said,  quietly,  after  a  moment. 

He  gave  a  chuckle  of  triumph. 

"Not  so  many  as  you'd  think.  Even  the  con- 
servation cranks  have  somehow  overlooked  the 
real  value  of  this  tract  in  laying  out  their  fool 
parks.  It's  covered  by  homestead  rights  in  the 
the  usual  way,  and  those  rights,  Ollie,  belong 
to  me." 

"To  you?" 

"They  don't  stand  in  my  name,  of  course. 
It's  getting  so  a  Congressman  has  to  hide  his 
business  interests.  I've  had  to  act  through 
somebody  else,  and  that  somebody  you  can 
easily  guess  is  Proctor  Hoyt.  You've  never 
appreciated  what  a  head  he  has  on  him,  Ollie. 
He's  the  chap  who  has  gathered  in  those  home- 
steaders' claims.  He  was  still-hunting  them 
when  I  first  met  him,  over  a  year  ago,  but  handi- 
capped for  funds.  I  fixed  that  part  all  right, 
and  he  did  the  rest.  There's  not  much  worth 
while  outstanding;  but  such  as  it  is  we  propose 
to  have  it  before  we  make  our  big  move." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  are  going  into  the 
lumber  business?" 

"That  will  depend  on  my  distinguished  asso- 

[278] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

ciate,"  he  said.  "I'll  take  an  active  hand  if  he 
says  the  word;  but  I  rather  think  he'll  buy  me 
out.  Marshall  Blount  has  never  had  a  real 
partner." 

"So  that's  why  you've  been  so  keen  to  know 
him?  You  want  to  interest  him  in  lumber?" 

"Interest  him!  That's  good.  Why,  Blount 
is  a  secret  backer  of  the  Lumber  Trust.  God 
only  knows  how  this  thing  has  got  by  him;  but 
it  has.  I've  nailed  down  something  he  needs — 
something  that  Marshall  Blount  will  be  keen  to 
buy."  He  rose  to  his  full  height  and  threw  back 
his  shoulders.  "Not  many  men  have  been  in  a 
position  to  say  that.  To  be  able  to  say  it  means 
that  Steve  Braisted  has  moved  up  among  the 
powers  that  be." 

She  knew  not  what  to  say  to  him,  and  her  si- 
lence misled  him. 

"You  mustn't  take  it  hard  that  I  haven't  let 
you  into  the  secret  before,"  he  went  on.  "I  had 
to  keep  it  under  my  hat.  The  slightest  leak 
might  have  spoiled  everything.  Besides,  Ollie, 
you're  a  different  woman  after  a  winter  in  Wash- 
ington. You  take  a  broader  view  of  things. 
You're  more  up-to-date."  He  paused  for  a  look 
of _  critical  approval.  "By  George,  I  believe 
you're  thinner,  too!  Why,  you  must  be  ten 
pounds  lighter  than  you  were  last  fall." 

"It's  nearer  twenty,"  said  Olive,  not  without 
pride. 

"What's  done  it?" 

[279] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Turkish  baths,  for  one  thing.  Mrs.  Tully 
advised  them."  She  did  not  mention  that  an- 
other potent  cause  was  worry. 

"I  guess  I'll  try  them  myself  when  I'm  less 
rushed;  but  it  isn't  easy  to  prophesy  when  that 
will  be.  Hoyt  and  I  still  have  a  pile  of  work 
cut  out  for  us." 

Hoyt,  always  Hoyt!  Bewildered  by  details 
which,  like  everything  pertaining  to  "big  busi- 
ness," were  a  mystery,  she  nevertheless  grasped 
one  basic  fact.  Whatever  its  true  character — 
crooked  or  straight — this  whole  ambitious  fabric 
had  for  its  keystone  a  man  whom  her  intuition 
bade  her  distrust.  How  could  she  tactfully  warn 
her  husband  to  be  watchful? 

But  Steve's  thoughts  had  already  surged  into 
another  channel. 

"Halsey  seemed  mighty  glad  of  my  offer  of 
rooms  here,"  he  said.  "Has  he  sent  his  things 
over  yet?" 

"Yes,  this  morning.     He  is  up-stairs  now." 

"Good.  I'll  see  if  he  is  still  awake  and  get 
in  touch  with  affairs  out  at  the  works.  It's  won- 
derful the  way  Ben  has  mastered  the  details  of 
the  business.  I  seldom  have  to  bother  with  the 
Tuscarora  mail." 

Olive  was  reminded  that  several  letters  lay 
unopened  on  her  desk,  and  she  returned  to  her 
sitting-room  and  searched  the  pile  in  the  hope 
that  Fern  might  have  written  again.  There  was, 
indeed,  a  letter,  and  its  tone  was  as  contrite  as 

[280] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

the  girl's  previous  letter  was  hard.  Something 
had  melted  her,  and  while  the  mood  lasted  she 
had  confessed  her  shortcomings  and  begged  for- 
giveness like  the  Fern  of  simpler  days.  If  her 
mother  could  have  believed  that  Hoyt  had  no 
part  in  it  she  would  have  been  supremely  happy, 
but  reason  told  her  that  he  might  very  well  be 
the  magnet  that  attracted  her  homesick  thoughts 
toward  Washington. 

Yet,  be  its  inspiration  what  it  might,  the  pre- 
cious scrawl  brought  comfort,  and  Olive  read  it 
again  and  again  before  she  hid  it  near  her  heart. 
Then,  absently  sifting  the  other  letters,  begging 
appeals  like  the  bulk  of  her  mail  since  she  had 
come  under  this  roof,  she  opened  a  note  in  a 
hand  she  did  not  recall  till,  amazed  at  the  first 
line,  she  turned  the  sheet  and  found  the  signa- 
ture of  Philippa  Blount. 

"I  have  serious  things  to  tell  you  about  the 
man  you  know  as  Proctor  Hoyt,"  it  ran.  "I 
can't  write  them.  They  are  mixed  in  with  per- 
sonal affairs  in  such  a  way  that — well,  I  just 
can't  write  them,  that's  all.  Don't  let  this 
letter  frighten  you.  I  only  want  to  put  you  on 
your  guard  till  I  can  see  you  and  speak  plainly. 
I  am  not  sure  yet  how  I  am  to  have  a  talk  with 
you;  but  I  think  I  know  a  way.  Don't  leave 
Washington  for  a  day  or  two  unless  I  ask  you 
to  meet  me  somewhere." 

The  girl's  pen  had  raced  over  the  paper  as  if 
she  were  distraught,  and  Olive  caught  the  very 

19  [281] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

atmosphere  in  which  the  letter  must  have  been 
written.  Reading  it  with  her  heart  in  her 
throat,  its  impetuous  script  swimming  before 
her  eyes,  she  was  slow  in  discovering  that  a  word 
at  the  bottom  directed  her  to  a  postscript  within. 

"I  feel,"  she  read  on,  "that  I  owe  you  more 
convincing  evidence  than  my  word  that  I  know 
about  this  man's  past,  and  I  will  send  you  a 
photograph  of  him  taken  a  few  years  ago.  The 
woman  in  the  picture  you  will  probably  recog- 
nize. Don't  worry  about  Fern.  Wounds  heal 
quickly  with  the  young." 

That  last  sentence  burned  itself  into  Olive's 
brain;  but  it  was  not  of  Fern  she  thought.  It 
was  of  Steve,  who  was  no  longer  young.  What 
of  his  wounds?  How  would  he  bear  disillusion, 
exposure,  perhaps  ruin? 

There  was  a  step  in  the  corridor,  and  she 
crammed  the  letter  into  a  drawer  of  the  desk. 
Steve  must  not  see  it  yet.  But  it  was  the  butler 
who  passed  the  half -open  door.  An  idea  struck 
her,  and  she  called  him. 

"I  am  expecting  a  package,  Creevey.  Are 
you  sure  none  came  with  my  mail?" 

"Yes,  madam." 

"It  might  have  been  given  to  Mr.  Halsey 
with  the  business  letters." 

"There  were  no  parcels  to-day,  madam,  ex- 
cept those  in  Mr.  Braisted's  Congressional  post, 
which  looked  like  printed  matter.  I  will  ask 
Mr.  Halsey,  if  you  wish." 

[282] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"No,"  she  said,  controlling  her  voice,  for  he 
seemed  to  mark  her  eagerness.  "This  package 
would  not  have  been  sent  to  the  Capitol.  When 
it  does  come,  see  that  I  get  it  at  once." 

"Yes,  madam." 

Then  Steve  came  whistling  back  from  his  talk 
with  Ben,  and  she  left  the  amazing  letter  in  its 
place  of  concealment  for  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

ALL  Sunday  she  could  think  of  nothing  but 
the  coming  photograph.  During  the  fore- 
noon she  had.  Creevey  send  to  the  general 
post-office  for  the  mail,  which  in  the  usual 
course  of  things  would  reach  the  house  Monday 
morning;  but  he  reported  that  no  parcel  had 
been  received.  It  was  odd,  but  not  inexplicable. 
She  reminded  herself  that  Philippa  would  be 
apt  to  register  so  important  a  piece  of  evidence, 
and  resigned  herself  to  wait  until  the  morrow. 

But  the  breakfast  budget  brought  nothing, 
and  the  successive  deliveries  of  the  morning 
yielded  merely  advertisements,  more  begging 
letters,  and  a  note  from  Mrs.  Tully  asking  her 
to  lunch  with  her  on  Tuesday  by  way  of  farewell. 
The  afternoon,  too,  dragged  emptily  till  four 
o'clock,  when  she  resolutely  planted  herself  in 
an  alcove  of  the  imposing  library  with  a  book. 
This  seemed  to  pique  Fate,  for  she  could  have 
read  the  first  paragraph  no  more  than  thrice 
when  Creevey  bore  down  on  her  with  a  silver 
tray. 

"I  brought  it  at  once,  madam,  as  you  re- 
quested," he  said. 

[284] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Thank  you,  Creevey." 

He  handed  her  shears  and  lingered  near  as  if 
to  help;  but  she  extinguished  him  with  the  new 
look  of  authority,  which  excited  wonder  in  the 
servants'  hall,  and  he  promptly  withdrew. 

She  was  all  trembling  eagerness  when  alone. 
In  nervous  haste  she  tore  off  the  outer  wrapper, 
and  the  evidence  which  was  to  brand  Proctor 
Hoyt  an  impostor  lay  before  her  bewildered 
eyes.  Stretching  quite  across  the  card,  a  diag- 
onal crack  marred  the  portraits  beyond  all  hope 
of  recognition.  Bodies  there  were,  but  feature- 
less bodies  that  might  belong  to  any  man  and 
woman  who  had  the  sentimental  whim  to  face 
a  camera  together.  The  one  dim  clue  to  their 
identity  lay  in  the  name  and  address  of  the 
photographer,  and  these,  alas,  were  written  in 
a  foreign  tongue  that  mocked  her  defective 
schooling. 

Then  the  soft-footed  Creevey  reappeared  with 
the  card  of  Mrs.  Pratt.  Olive  slipped  the  ruined 
photograph  into  her  bosom  and  went  down, 
striving  mightily  to  mold  her  face  into  the  cor- 
dial mask  of  the  perfect  hostess  whom  no  catas- 
trophe disturbs. 

"  I  hope  you  will  pardon  my  informality,"  said 
Mrs.  Pratt,  who  looked  only  less  formal  than  the 
grand  marshal  of  a  civic  parade.  "Of  course 
this  is  not  your  day,  but  I  am  leaving  town 
to-morrow,  and  did  so  want  another  of  our 
little  chats  before  I  go." 

[285] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

Olive  murmured  something  agreeable,  and 
while  the  caller  detailed  her  summer  plans 
asked  herself  how  Philippa  could  have  wrapped 
her  package  so  carelessly. 

"May  I  ask  if  it's  true  that  the  Walden  me- 
mento is  hopelessly  ruined?  When  I  came 
Thursday  it  was  intact,  and  I  thought  lent  a 
beautiful  touch  of  color  against  the  marble  back- 
ground; but  a  friend  who  was  here  late  said 
that  she  was  sure  she  stumbled  over  one  of  the 
Moor's  arms  in  the  street." 

"Oh,  the  umbrella  rack!"  Olive  wrenched  her 
thoughts  back  to  her  visitor.  "Yes.  It  was 
smashed  to  pieces.  But  I  shall  never  forget  it," 
she  added,  fervently,  and  again  attacked  the 
riddle  of  the  broken  picture.  It  was  not  like 
Philippa;  she  was  so  competent,  so  clear- 
headed— 

"It  is  sad  to  think  of  an  object  of  beauty  as 
utterly  destroyed,"  continued  the  tormentor. 
"But,  after  all,  it  was  the  spirit  of  the  gift  that 
counted." 

"So  I  think,"  assented  Olive,  relieved  that 
Mrs.  Pratt  did  not  suggest  raising  funds  for  a 
duplicate. 

"Just  as  it  was  the  spirit  of  your  invitation, 
rather  than  your  reception,  that  we  Walden 
friends  enjoyed." 

"You  couldn't  be  expected  to  enjoy  being 
crushed." 

"I  trust  you  acquit  the  official  ladies  of  any 

[286] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

responsibility  for  the  vulgar  scenes  that  oc- 
curred?" 

"Of  course."  Her  attention  strayed  again. 
What  if  Philippa  had  taken  every  care;  what  if 
some  one  had  tampered  with  the  package? 
Who  could  have  had  the  motive  or  the  oppor- 
tunity? 

"  I  am  jealous  of  the  social  repute  of  the  House 
of  Representatives,"  said  the  gadfly. 

Olive  gazed  into  the  thin,  punctilious  face  with 
a  far-away  stare.  Could  Creevey  have  done  this 
thing?  He  had  had  the  opportunity,  certainly. 
But  what  could  be  his  motive?  Then,  in  a 
flash,  her  memory  evoked  that  chance  glimpse 
of  Proctor  Hoyt  with  his  arm  thrown  familiarly 
across  the  servant's  shoulders.  And  it  was  Hoyt 
who  had  recommended  Creevey!  The  butler 
might  be  his  confederate,  his  spy.  He  had  seen 
her  thrust  Philippa's  letter  out  of  sight;  he 
could  have  laid  hands  on  it  that  night;  he  could 
have  intercepted  the  package.  Why  in  the  name 
of  common  sense  had  she  not  examined  the 
wrapper? 

"I  said,"  repeated  Mrs.  Pratt,  crisply,  "that 
I  am  jealous  of  the  social  repute  of  the  House 
of  Representatives." 

"Yes,  naturally,"  agreed  Olive,  with  a  guilty 
start.  "Don't  you  think  it's  very  close  here? 
Suppose  we  go  to  the  library,  where  we'll  feel 
the  breeze  from  the  river?  I'll  order  some  tea, 
unless  you  prefer  a  cold  drink?" 

[287] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

The  guardian  of  the  fair  name  of  the  House 
of  Representatives  chose  tea,  and  was  mollified. 

"Personally,  I  was  sure  that  you  would  not 
harbor  Thursday's  indignity  against  us,"  she  de- 
clared, as  they  left  the  room;  "but  one  or  two 
people — I  won't  say  whom — thought  that  after 
such  an  experience  you  would  become  as  ex- 
clusive as  the  Colburns.  I've  always  replied, 
'You  don't  know  Olive  Braisted."' 

"That  was  good  of  you." 

"Oh,  I  was  glad  to  do  it.  I  know  that  when 
another  season  brings  new  interests  and  new 
friends  into  your  life,  you'll  still  remember  the 
Walden." 

The  sentence  which  began  so  firmly  with  "I 
know"  came  to  its  end  with  the  rising  inflection 
of  imperfect  faith;  but  Olive  allayed  her  last 
anxiety. 

"You  will  always  seem  the  Old  Washingto- 
nians  to  me,"  she  promised. 

"How  like  you  to  say  it,"  beamed  the  caller. 

As  they  entered  the  library,  Olive's  glance 
flew  to  the  waste-basket  where  she  had  dropped 
the  wrapper.  Empty!  As  if  anticipating  her 
action,  the  last  incriminating  scrap  had  been 
removed.  She  pressed  an  electric  button,  and 
when  Creevey,  statuesque  and  impeccable  as 
ever,  stood  before  her,  she  was  for  an  instant 
tempted  to  ask  him  for  the  wrapper  if  only  to 
read  his  face;  but  she  prudently  forebore  and 
merely  ordered  tea. 

[288  1 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

At  peace  as  to  the  future,  Mrs.  Pratt  allowed 
her  faculties  to  relax  in  light  gossip  for  half  an 
hour  more;  but  Olive  kept  a  tighter  rein  on  her 
errant  thoughts,  and  when  the  visitor  left  at 
last  it  was  with  increased  pride  in  her  own 
social  gifts,  to  which,  more  than  any  other  agency, 
she  attributed  the  change  wrought  in  Mrs. 
Braisted  during  the  season  now  closing.  It 
would  have  astounded  her  to  hear  that  she  had 
betrayed  this  opinion  to  her  pupil,  and,  even 
were  she  told,  it  is  doubtful  if  she  would  have 
believed  her  tact  at  fault.  Happily,  Olive 
thought  of  her  oftenest  in  the  indubitably  tact- 
ful moment  of  the  presentation  of  the  Moor, 
and  this  was  the  kindly  memory  which  in  good 
time  effaced  the  boredom  of  her  farewell  call. 

In  the  vital  present  she  forgot  her  before 
she  gained  the  street,  for  Creevey,  ushering  out 
the  social  arbiter  with  becoming  state,  opened 
the  door  to  a  far  more  significant  visitor.  Olive, 
who,  after  the  hospitable  fashion  of  Tuscarora, 
had  come  to  the  hall  with  her  caller,  peered  at 
the  new-comer  as  if  she  doubted  her  eyes. 

"Philippa!"  Then,  remembering  Creevey  in 
the  background,  she  confined  herself  to  common- 
places till  they  reached  her  room.  "Now!"  she 
said,  and  held  out  her  arms. 

To  her  astonishment  the  girl  flushed  deeply 
and  drew  back. 

"You'll  not  want  to  touch  me,  Mrs.  Braisted, 
when  I've  told  you  everything." 

[289] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"My  dear!" 

"It's  true." 

"I  can't  believe  that."  She  took  her  by  the 
hand  and  led  her  to  a  seat  beside  her.  "How 
did  you  manage  to  come  to  Washington?  Does 
Fern  know?" 

"Nobody  knows.  Our  trip  is  still  delayed, 
and  Fern  went  early  this  morning  to  spend  a 
day  and  night  with  one  of  the  Beauchamp  girls 
who  lives  in  the  Jersey  suburbs.  I  made  an 
excuse  of  the  Philadelphia  milliner  I  sometimes 
go  to,  and  left  home  just  after  Fern.  I  did  stop 
and  see  the  milliner  between  trains.  I  owed  it 
to  my  conscience — my  queer  conscience  that 
hasn't  balked  at  far  greater  deceits.  I  don't 
know  how  to  tell  you  what  I  have  come  to  tell. 
It's  so — so  humiliating." 

"Leave  that  part  out,"  said  Olive,  promptly. 

"I  can't.  If  I  don't  confess  my  motive  I'll 
seem  even  worse  than  I  am.  Mrs.  Braisted, 
I've  known  for  months  that  Proctor  Hoyt  wasn't 
good  enough  for  Fern." 

"For  months!" 

"Ever  since  I  saw  him  first  here  in  Washing- 
ton. I  had  never  laid  eyes  on  him  before — I 
had  always  heard  him  called  another  name; 
but  I  knew  him  by  his  photograph,  the  photo- 
graph I  sent  you.  You  can  see  for  yourself  that 
I  couldn't  be  mistaken.  He  looks  just  as  he 
did  in  Venezuela  when  he  eloped  with  my 
sister." 

[290] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"With  your  sister!     What  are  you  saying?" 

Philippa  turned  and  stared. 

"Didn't  you  realize  that  the  woman  in  the 
picture  is  my  sister?  I  thought  that  after 
what  I  told  you  at  Mount  Vernon — " 

"  Look !"  Olive  snatched  the  photograph  from 
its  hiding-place  and  thrust  it  into  her  hands. 
"What  could  I — what  could  anybody — make  of 
that?" 

"It  came  like  this — broken,  unrecognizable?" 

"Yes." 

"And  after  all  my  care!  I  can't  account  for 
it." 

"I  can,"  said  Olive,  grimly.  "But  go  on. 
This  Hoyt,  as  he  calls  himself,  is  the  man  you 
mentioned  at  Mount  Vernon,  the  scamp  your 
sister  divorced?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  knew  then  that  he  was  the  man?" 

"Yes."  She  bent  her  head.  "I  have  said 
that  I  knew  all  along." 

"Yet  you  let  my  Fern  go  on  making  a  fool  of 
herself  over  him?" 

"Yes." 

"You'd  even  have  let  her  marry  him  if  things 
had  gone  that  far?" 

"I  don't  know."  She  began  to  weep  as  a 
statue  might,  stonily.  "I  don't  know." 

Olive  sprang  to  her  feet  and  glowered  down 
at  her. 

"Why  did  you  do  this  thing?" 

[291] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

The  girl  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Why?"  repeated  the  older  woman,  harshly. 

"Can't  you — can't  you  guess?"  came  the 
muffled  voice.  "Remember  how  I  met  you 
that  day  at  school.  I  told  you  that  I  had  heard 
of  you  through — through —  Oh,  you  must  under- 
stand." 

Olive  did  understand,  and  the  knowledge 
softened  her  instantly. 

"You  poor  motherless  child!"  she  cried, 
dropping  beside  her  and  gathering  her  to  her 
breast.  "So  you  wanted  Ben — our  Ben!  I've 
been  blind,  simply  blind." 

Presently  Philippa  straightened. 

"You  must  hear  the  rest  of  it — " 

"No,  no,  dearie." 

"But  you  must.  You  think  I'm  strange  and 
hard  and  unwomanly.  I  want  you  to  realize 
that  I've  had  to  think  things  out  by  myself.  I 
have  a  horror  of  the  average  rich  girl's  fate. 
I  don't  want  to  be  married  for  money.  I  want 
love,  happiness.  When  I  met  Ben  Halsey  and  we 
became  friends,  such  good  friends,  I  thought  the 
way  lay  clear  before  me.  I  saw  to  it  that  father 
got  to  know  him.  I  made  him  promise  Ben  a 
position  when  he  should  be  ready  for  it.  Father 
understood  me  perfectly,  and  he  was  willing  to 
help.  He  would  do  anything  rather  than  have  me 
repeat  Maud's  mistake.  Then — then  Fern  came 
to  Washington,  and  I  saw  that  Ben  was  fond 
of  her.  I  didn't  know  that  they  were  pledged 

[292] 


THE   WOMAN   OF   IT 

to  each  other.  I  only  saw  that  she  attracted 
him,  and  I  did  everything  I  could  to  stop  it. 
That  was  why  I  asked  her  to  New  York  for  the 
Christmas  holidays — to  get  her  away.  That 
was  why — I  must  be  honest  with  you — I  asked 
her  to  go  West  this  summer.  But  it  was  not 
the  same,  this  second  time.  She  had  become 
lukewarm  toward  Ben.  Her  mind  was  full  of 
Proctor  Hoyt.  And  I — I  did  what  you  know. 
The  temptation  was  too  strong  to  resist.  I  did 
not  think  she  would  marry  him.  I  hoped  not. 
I  only  wanted  it  made  plain  to  Ben  that  she  no 
longer  cared  for  him.  You  asked  me  if  I  would 
have  let  her  marry  Hoyt,  and  I  told  you  that  I 
did  not  know.  That's  true  of  things  as  they 
were  up  to  last  week.  Since  I  left  Washington 
I  have  come  upon  facts  that  were  new  to  me. 
One  of  them  I  learned  the  very  night  we  went 
to  New  York.  We  talked  for  a  long  time  in 
our  stuffy  state-room — it  was  too  hot  to  sleep — 
and  Fern  spoke  freely  of  both  Hoyt  and  Ben 
Halsey.  That  was  the  first  time  I  heard  of  the 
understanding  between  her  and  Ben." 

"It  was  merely  that,  not  an  engagement," 
Olive  found  herself  saying. 

Philippa  flashed  her  a  look  of  wondering 
gratitude. 

"You're  the  most  generous  woman  in  the 
world,"  she  returned.  "But  I  realize  now,  as 
I  realized  that  night,  that  Ben  has  never  cared 
for  me  as  I  hoped  he  might  care.  I  didn't  see 

[293] 


THE    WOMAN   OF    IT 

right  away,  though,  that  I  was  beaten.  That 
came  the  next  day,  when  I  learned  things  about 
Hoyt  that  showed  me  I  must  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it  all  to  you.  Friday  I  shopped  and 
lunched  with  Fern,  and  then  left  her  at  the 
Waldorf  with  her  brother,  who  had  come  down 
from  New  Haven,  while  I  went  home  to  super- 
intend my  packing.  At  the  house  I  found  Maud 
just  in  from  a  house-party  at  Lenox  and  on  her 
way  somewhere  else.  She  was  bursting  with 
news,  and  wanted  to  talk.  She  talked  to  me 
more  intimately  than  she'd  ever  done  before, 
and,  by  and  by,  as  she  had  an  errand  at  her 
safe  deposit  vault  and  still  felt  gossipy,  we 
motored  down  together.  The  trust  company 
was  in  lower  Broadway,  and  on  our  way  back 
a  block  in  the  traffic  below  Grace  Church  forced 
us  off  among  the  dingy  little  streets  near  Wash- 
ington Square.  It's  rather  a  foreign  quarter, 
and  as  we  passed  a  restaurant  where  people  were 
eating,  Continental  fashion,  in  the  open  air,  we 
both  got  a  clear  view  of  a  man  and  woman  who 
were  quarreling  over  their  meal.  At  any  rate, 
they  looked  angry,  and  had  eyes  for  no  one  else. 
One  was  a  woman  I  have  seen  on  the  street  here 
in  Washington.  The  other  was  the  man  we 
call  Hoyt.  My  sister  married  him  under  the 
name  of  Purcell — Alan  Purcell." 

"Was  the  woman  a  blonde  of  the  English 
type?" 

"Why,  yes.     How  could  you  know?" 

[294] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"I've  seen  her  here,  too,"  said  Olive,  who  read 
a  new  meaning  into  the  scene  she  had  surprised 
at  the  railway  station.  "Were  you  both  sure 
it  was  Hoyt?" 

"Maud  hadn't  any  doubt.  She  said  that  she, 
if  anybody,  ought  to  know  her  former  husband 
when  she  saw  him.  I  wasn't  so  certain,  for 
of  course  I  had  left  him  here  in  Washington, 
but  we  had  no  sooner  returned  home  than  Mr. 
Braisted  'phoned,  asking  me  to  dinner,  and  men- 
tioned that  Hoyt  would  be  hi  the  party.  That's 
not  the  main  point,  though.  The  important 
thing  was  the  effect  of  that  encounter  on  Maud. 
She  was  moody  all  the  way  home,  and  I  soon 
learned  the  reason.  Although  she  had  just  be- 
come engaged  to  another  man — this  was  her 
great  news — she  was  jealous,  furiously  jealous, 
of  that  woman  with  the  bleached  hair  she  had 
seen  with  her  ex-husband.  I  can't  understand  it; 
I  suppose  I'm  not  one  of  the  *  primitive'  women 
the  novelists  talk  about;  but  there  it  was,  a  fact, 
and  while  it  lasted  she  flamed  out  with  terrible  de- 
tails of  their  life  together.  I'd  known  very  little 
about  her  marriage.  I  was  too  young  when  it 
happened  to  hear  it  discussed.  I  had  merely 
heard  that  she  had  gone  down  with  father  to 
visit  that  horrible  lake  of  pitch  which  has  made 
us  rich  and  miserable,  and  that  there  she  met 
and  married  this  Hoyt,  or  Purcell,  who  was  in 
the  asphalt  company's  employ.  It  was  left 
for  Maud  to  tell  me  of  his  brutality  during  the 

[295] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

half-year  she  spent  with  him  in  a  Venezuelan 
city.  I  hadn't  dreamed  that,  any  more  than 
I  had  dreamed  that  he  had  misappropriated 
funds,  and  only  escaped  jail  because  father  paid 
the  money  himself  to  avoid  scandal.  You  be- 
lieve me,  don't  you?" 

"Absolutely." 

"  I  saw  at  once  that  I  must  come  to  you.  I  don 't 
mean  on  Fern's  account.  I  could  have  exposed 
Hoyt  to  her — and  I  will  expose  him — without 
leaving  New  York.  It  is  of  Mr.  Braisted  that 
I  am  thinking  now,  for  Fern  mentioned  that  he 
is  associated  with  Hoyt  in  some  business  matter. 
You  mustn't  let  it  go  on.  You  must  tell  your 
husband  the  sort  of  man  he  is  dealing  with 
and  get  rid  of  him.  Why  not  have  him  see 
father?" 

"See  your  father?"  For  an  instant  Olive 
clung  hopefully  to  the  suggestion.  Then  she 
perceived  its  impossibility.  Steve  could  not 
meet  Marshall  Blount  in  this  way. 

"Why  not?"  pressed  the  girl  "Father  would 
be  glad  to  advise  him.  Go  back  with  me  to- 
night— both  of  you." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear,"  she  replied,  "but  we 
must  face  this  by  ourselves.  I  must  ask  you 
to  say  nothing  to  your  father  about  it." 

"Of  course  I'll  say  nothing,  if  you  prefer." 

"I  do  prefer." 

"I  promise,  then."  She  slipped  her  hand 
into  Olive's.  "And  you — you  won't  speak  of 

[296] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

me  to  Fern;  of  this  visit,  of  the  things  I  have 
confessed  to  you?" 

"Never!" 

"It  isn't  that  I  would  so  much  mind  her  know- 
ing," she  said;  "but  if  she  knew,  it  would  some 
day  get  to  Ben.  I  couldn't  bear  that.  I — I 
couldn't."  She  rose  with  a  gesture  of  weariness 
that  went  straight  to  Olive's  heart.  "Good-by. 
Think  as  kindly  of  me  as  you  can." 

Olive  caught  her  to  her  breast. 

"Think  kindly  of  you!"  she  echoed.  "I  love 
you  as  if  you  were  my  very  own." 

There  was  yet  another  ordeal  awaiting  Phi- 
lippa  under  that  roof.  As  they  passed  down  the 
corridor  she  came  face  to  face  with  Halsey. 

"Why,  hello,  Phil!"  he  said,  as  if  she  were  a 
masculine  friend. 

"Hello,  Ben!"  Her  voice  was  steady,  even  if 
the  hand  that  lay  in  Olive's  trembled. 

"Is  Fern  here,  too?"  he  asked. 

"No;  but  I'll  be  seeing  her  to-morrow.  Any 
message?" 

He  hesitated,  and  for  a  dark  moment  Olive 
thought  he  would  indeed  make  the  wretched 
girl  his  messenger. 

"No,"  he  said,  finally.  "I  think  not.  Good- 
by,  Phil." 

"Good-by,  Ben."  And  with  head  erect  she 
went  her  way. 

20 


CHAPTER  XXV 

BY  morning,  feeling  beyond  her  depth,  Olive 
decided  to  appeal  to  Estabrook.  A  lawyer 
and  a  friend,  he  had  also  in  his  wife's  financial 
interest  the  right  to  probe  the  true  nature  of 
Hoyt's  enterprise.  At  the  early  hour  she  knew 
he  breakfasted  she  telephoned  the  hotel,  taking 
the  precaution  to  slip  round  the  corner  to  a  pay 
station  in  a  druggist's  instead  of  using  one  of 
the  instruments  in  the  house.  As  she  waited 
she  heard  the  voice  of  the  Walden  night-clerk, 
drowsily  irritable,  as  always,  just  before  going  off 
duty,  and  various  strident  sounds  which  to  her 
practised  ear  denoted  that  the  hall-boys  were 
dragging  the  heavy  rocking-chairs  to  their  ap- 
pointed places  in  the  lobby.  Then  the  door  of 
the  hotel  telephone  booth  slammed  shut,  the 
receiver  rattled,  and  Estabrook  wished  her  good 
morning. 

"I  must  see  you  on  business,"  she  said,  com- 
ing immediately  to  the  point.  "I  can't  explain 
here;  but  it's  most  important  and  confidential." 

"I'll  come  to  your  house  this  morning  about 
ten  o'clock,"  he  returned,  promptly. 

"But  I'd  rather  you  wouldn't." 

[298] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"Oh!" 

"And  the  Walden  won't  do  either.  I'm  sorry 
if  I'm  putting  you  out;  but — " 

"That's  all  right,"  he  reassured.  "Suppose 
we  meet  at  that  hour  in  the  Library  of  Congress 
— say  in  the  Representatives'  reading-room? 
You'll  find  it  quiet." 

She  found  it  more  than  quiet.  The  brave 
chamber  set  apart  for  the  studious  spirits  of  the 
lower  House  mourned  with  the  lifeless  hush  of 
an  Egyptian  tomb.  Estabrook,  barricaded  by 
heavy  books  at  a  far  table,  was  the  sole  occupant. 

"You  were  coming  here  anyway?"  asked 
Olive,  glancing  at  his  papers  as  he  rose  to  greet 
her. 

"Yes.  I'm  looking  up  something.  Come 
over  in  this  corner.  I  was  right  about  the  peace- 
fulness,  you  see,"  he  continued,  to  give  her  ob- 
viously taut  nerves  a  moment  to  relax.  "A  few 
tourists  may  poke  their  heads  in  to  see  the 
mosaic  mantels;  but  there  will  be  nobody  else. 
'Herodotus,  Thucydides,  Livy,  Tacitus,""  he 
read  from  a  panel  devoted  to  the  Muse  of  his- 
tory. "What  does  the  average  Congressman 
know  or  care  about  those  old  chaps!  They  can't 
teach  him  how  to  land  a  new  Federal  build- 
ing for  Prairie  City,  or  to  wheedle  Uncle  Sam 
into  forking  out  good  money  for  a  useless  dock- 
yard down  East.  The  college  professors  don't 
like  to  think  that  the  average  Congressman  is 
the  average  American,  yet — " 

[299] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"What  do  you  think  of  Proctor  Hoyt?"  de- 
manded Olive. 

Estabrook  accepted  the  change  of  topic  im- 
perturbably. 

"I  rather  enjoy  an  imaginative  liar,"  he  said, 
dryly. 

"You  knew  him  before  I  did." 

"I  met  him  before  you  did." 

"Don't  you  take  any  stock  in  him  whatever?" 

"No.  My  wife  says  I'm  mistaken  in  my  esti- 
mate; but  her  arguments  on  the  other  side 
aren't  convincing." 

"Does  he  strike  you  as  a  man  capable  of  any- 
thing unlawful?" 

He  eyed  her  with  quickened  interest. 

"Not  on  the  face  of  things.  But  my  law 
experience  taught  me  that  the  face  of  things 
can  be  mighty  deceptive.  Such  as  it  is,  Mrs. 
Braisted,  my  judgment  is  at  your  service.  And 
if  you  want  more  than  opinions,"  he  added,  "I 
stand  ready  to  lend  a  hand." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  warmly.  "I'm  so 
glad  you  said  that  before  I  show  you  that  this 
is  your  affair,  too." 

"My  affair?" 

"I  mean  through  your  wife." 

He  winced  as  if  she  had  struck  him  in  the 
face. 

"Has  that  man—" 

"She  has  been  induced  to  put  money  into  a 
scheme  of  Hoyt's,"  Olive  whipped  in,  the  red 

[300] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

staining  her  own  cheek  in  sympathy.  "I  rather 
think  it's  a  good  deal  of  money." 

"Oh!"  he  said,  intense  relief  hi  his  tone. 
"Mrs.  Estabrook  does  as  she  pleases  with  her 
own  property.  Unless  there  is  a  strong  reason 
I  wouldn't  want  to  interfere." 

"You'll  find  the  reason  strong  enough,"  she 
promised,  and  plunged  into  her  story. 

It  was  a  delicate  task,  for  she  had  to  shield 
Philippa's  unhappy  love  and  exclude  Fern 
altogether;  but  she  omitted  no  essential  detail. 
It  was  not  a  calm  recital.  As  she  spoke  she 
lived  afresh  the  miserable  anxiety  of  the  past 
weeks,  and,  gloss  Steve's  conduct  as  she  might, 
she  could  not  hide  her  fear  that  he  had  played 
with  edged  tools. 

"I  thought  that  perhaps  you  knew  something 
of  this  business,  too,"  she  ended.  "You  went 
about  with  Hoyt  early  in  the  whiter.'* 

"Not  after  I  took  his  measure." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"I  mean  that  he  threw  out  hints  about  his 
scheme." 

"He  wanted  you  to  put  money  in  it?" 

"No,  not  money."  Estabrook  smiled  grimly. 
"He  knew  my  circumstances  too  well  for  that. 
He  wanted  my  influence  to  kill  off  a  forest  re- 
serve measure  that  might  have  interfered  with 
his  field  of  operations.  You  see,  I  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  committee  that  had  it  hi  charge." 

"What  happened?" 

[301] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"I  persuaded  the  committee  to  report  it  out." 
Estabrook  squared  his  jaw.  "I'd  never  thought 
much  of  this  conservation  movement  before; 
but  this  fellow's  sly  methods  convinced  me 
that  there  must  be  some  good  in  it.  But  the 
bill  was  swamped  in  the  rush  of  business  at  the 
end  of  the  session." 

Olive  suddenly  grew  white. 

"Why,  Steve  made  a  speech  on  conservation," 
she  faltered.  "Was — was  it  when  they  were 
considering  this  bill?" 

"Yes." 

"And  all  the  time  he  knew — he  was  secretly 
interested —  Oh,  this  is  terrible!" 

Estabrook  smiled  reassuringly. 

"A  few  years  ago  nobody  would  have  thought 
the  worse  of  him.  You  must  remember,  too, 
that  he's  new  to  his  job.  Don't  let  the  ethics 
of  it  worry  you.  He'll  grow.  But  to  get  back 
to  Hoyt,  that  fellow  never  had  any  use  for  my 
society  after  he  heard  that  I  had  secured  a  berth 
in  the  Land  Office.  Now  that  I've  talked  with 
you  I  think  I  see  why.  His  scheme  is  probably 
bogus  throughout." 

"But  Steve  has  maps  and  figures — ' 

"Maps  and  figures  prove  nothing.  A  glib 
promoter  could  trot  out  plausible  documents  for 
an  ice-making  plant  in  Hades.  And  he'd  find 
gulls  to  swallow  his  tale!  Hard-headed  men 
that  you  couldn't  humbug  on  their  own  ground 
act  like  school-boys  when  the  get-rich-quick  nmn 

[302] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

comes  along.  Shrewdness  in  one  line  of  business 
is  no  guarantee  of  sound  judgment  in  another, 
and  your  husband  proves  it  as  hundreds  of  men 
have  proved  it  before  him.  He  has  believed 
what  he  wanted  to  believe,  and  I  dare  say  Hoyt 
has  thrown  such  a  fog  of  words  over  the  weak 
spots  that  they've  looked  like  the  pick  of  the 
argument.  It's  safe  to  say  it  looked  straight  or 
Stephen  Braisted  wouldn't  have  touched  it.  It 
seemed  just  the  gentlemanly  throat-cutting  we 
call  high  finance." 

"  Then  it's  not  so  serious,  after  all  ?  " 
"It  is  serious  enough.  If  Creevey  is  Hoyt's 
accomplice,  we're  dealing  with  a  gang  who  don't 
stick  at  tampering  with  the  United  States  mail, 
and  it's  quite  possible  they  have  the  grit  for 
any  felony.  Then  there's  the  money.  I  haven't 
a  notion  how  much  our  respective  partners  have 
dropped  in  this  scheme;  but  it's  a  safe  prophecy 
that  they'll  never  recover  a  cent.  That's  the 
cleverest  thing  about  the  swindle.  The  chief 
victim  can't  strike  back.  It  isn't  the  sort  of  deal 
that  a  Representative — particularly  a  Repre- 
sentative who's  been  mentioned  for  higher  honors 
— wants  published.  Braisted  must  have  seemed 
specially  created  for  the  part  he's  played.  But 
Hoyt  made  a  false  move  when  he  gathered  in 
my  wife.  I  suppose  he  got  greedy  and  assumed 
that  stylish  clothes  always  mean  prosperity.  It 
was  a  fatal  blunder,  for  it  gave  away  the  game. 
If  we  can't  help  the  spilled  milk,  we  can  at  least 

[303] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

keep  a  sharp  watch  on  what's  left  in  the  jug. 
Unless  I'm  much  mistaken,  they'll  be  after  more 
very  shortly." 

"More  money?  What  makes  you  think  so?" 
"This  juggling  with  the  photograph.  It  has 
the  look  of  panic,  a  hasty  move  to  stave  off  dis- 
closure till  the  last  possible  dollar  is  squeezed 
out  of  the  swindle.  Yes,  it's  a  safe  bet  that  a 
demand  for  more  sinews  of  war  is  on  the  way." 
"Then  I  think  it's  high  time  I  warned  Steve." 
"I  wouldn't  speak  out  just  yet.  As  the  situa- 
tion stands,  you  might  simply  egg  him  on  to  some 
rash  proof  of  confidence  in  his  own  judgment. 
You  see,  this  isn't  a  thing  he'll  want  to  believe. 
Give  me  a  little  time  to  think  this  over  and  find 
out  all  I  can.  Perhaps  something  could  be  done 
with  the  manicurist.  If  she  is  on  bad  terms  with 
Hoyt  we  may  be  able  to  use  her  grievance  as 
a  lever  to  expose  him.  If  it's  money  she  wants,  it 
might  be  advisable  to  make  her  a  present.  If 
it  isn't  money — well,  we'll  have  to  meet  the 
feminine  contingency  on  the  spot.  Do  you 
know  her  name?" 

"No.  I  don't  even  know  whether  she  is  still 
working  where  I  saw  her  that  day.  I  might 
go  there  now  and  have  my  nails  manicured." 

"I  wouldn't  try  that  yet.  You  had  better 
concentrate  on  Creevey.  His  trail  strikes  me  as 
more  promising.  Perhaps  we  can  catch  him 
communicating  with  Hoyt.  When  does  he  go 
off  duty  to-night?" 

[304] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Soon  after  dinner." 

"Then  ask  Ben  Halsey  to  follow  him  if  he 
leaves  the  house.  You'll  let  me  know  at  once 
if  there  are  any  new  developments?" 

"You  may  be  sure  of  that,"  said  Olive.  "I 
don't  know  what  I  should  do  without  you.  I'm 
more  afraid  of  those  people  now  that  I  know 
they're  swindlers.  Poor  Steve!  The  truth  will 
be  a  bitter  pill  to  him." 

"Bitter,  but  wholesome.  He'll  make  a  tip- 
top public  servant  after  this  experience.  The 
hard  lessons  are  the  ones  that  teach  us  most." 

"Poor  Steve!"  she  said  again. 

Then,  even  as  his  name  passed  her  lips, 
Stephen  Braisted,  for  the  first  time  hi  his  Con- 
gressional career,  entered  the  reading-room  with 
the  intention  of  putting  it  to  practical  use.  His 
face  mirrored  bewilderment  and  then  embarrass- 
ment as  he  spied  them,  and  his  nod  to  Estabrook 
was  curt.  Olive  rose  and  went  down  the  long 
room  to  meet  him,  and,  as  he  turned  and  stalked 
silently  beside  her  to  the  door,  she  divined  that 
for  once  in  their  married  life  her  husband  felt  the 
twinge  of  jealousy.  It  was  a  novel  and  not  un- 
pleasant sensation  for  her,  and  she  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  prolong  it  by  leaving  him 
the  first  word.  This  he  was  slow  to  speak,  how- 
ever, and  in  the  same  constraint  they  moved  down 
a  corridor  celebrating  the  impracticable  deeds  of 
Greek  heroes  and  gained  the  formal  magnificence 
of  the  vast  central  hall.  Deeming  this  setting 

[305] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

adequate  for  voicing  his  towering  injury,  Brai- 
sted  wheeled. 

"Find  Estabrook  entertaining  this  morning?" 
he  inquired,  with  killing  suavity. 

"Very." 

He  abruptly  gave  way  to  anger. 

"You  were  talking  about  me  in  there,"  he 
accused. 

Olive  no  longer  found  the  scene  diverting. 
How  much  did  he  know? 

"What  of  it?"  she  said. 

"You  don't  deny  it?" 

"No." 

"I  distinctly  heard  my  name  mentioned  as  I 
entered  the  door.  Then,  when  you  saw  who  it 
was,  you  turned  all  colors." 

"You  startled  me,  Steve." 

"I  don't  need  telling!  Now  I  don't  criticize 
your  gossiping  with  another  woman's  husband — ' 

"No,"  she  interposed,  quietly,  "I  wouldn't  if 
I  were  you.  It's  the  fashion  in  Washington." 

"Don't  try  to  put  me  off.  I  want  to  know 
what  Estabrook  said  about  me." 

She  saw  her  way  at  last  and  laughed. 

"He  said  that,  after  your  experience  here, 
you  will  make  a  tiptop  public  servant." 

"Did  he  say  that?  He  was  sheepishly  taken 
aback  and  pleased  at  the  tribute.  "His  opinion 
is  worth  having."  To  change  the  subject,  he 
added  that  he  had  dropped  into  the  library  with 
the  idea  of  priming  himself  with  a  few  facts 

[306] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

about  the  tariff.  "I  didn't  want  to  ask  Ben's 
help,"  he  went  on.  "He  looked  off  color  when 
I  saw  him  after  breakfast,  and  I  told  him  to 
take  things  easy." 

"I'm  glad  you  did,  Steve.  I  thought  yester- 
day he  seemed  peaked.  I'll  mother  him  a  lit- 
tle, poor  boy,  when  I  get  home.  He  mustn't  go 
out  in  this  heat.  He  feels  it  so." 

Braisted  hemmed  uneasily. 

"I  sent  him  out  this  morning,"  he  owned. 

"I  wish  you  hadn't." 

"There  was  some  banking  business  which  had 
to  be  looked  after.  I  told  him  he  needn't  do 
another  tap  to-day.  Rest  will  set  him  up.  Of 
course,  I  have  worked  him  hard  lately;  but 
I've  paid  him  well.  Let's  try  the  House  restau- 
rant, Ollie.  We've  often  talked  of  lunching  up 
here,  you  know,  and  this  is  a  good  chance." 

The  once  coveted  invitation  came  too  late. 
There  was  no  longer  any  glamour  attached  to 
such  an  outing;  but  she  did  not  think  of  this  as 
she  declined  to  stay.  She  was  wondering  what 
errand  among  the  banks  had  been  important 
enough  to  make  Steve  disregard  his  secretary's 
ailing  face.  Had  Estabrook's  prediction  already 
come  true? 

Halsey  had  not  yet  come  in  when  she  reached 
home,  and  it  was  long  after  luncheon  when, 
stationed  anxiously  in  a  window,  she  saw  him 
dismount  from  a  cab.  He  was  carrying  a  black 
bag  which,  small  as  it  was,  seemed  to  tax  his 

[307] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

strength,  and  his  whole  bearing  betrayed  ex- 
haustion. Olive  flew  to  meet  him  in  the  hall. 

"You  should  never  have  left  the  house,"  she 
cried.  "Steve  was  stark  mad  to  let  you  go." 

Ben  mustered  the  ghost  of  a  smile. 

"Ah,  this  is  cool,"  he  said,  passing  a  hand 
across  his  forehead.  "You  have  to  be  Southern 
born  to  hold  your  own  against  the  first  hot  days 
here."  He  swayed  unsteadily,  and  Olive,  slip- 
ping her  arm  around  his  shoulders,  guided  him 
to  the  nearest  of  the  stone  benches.  "That's 
better,  thanks,"  he  acknowledged,  with  closed 
eyes.  "I  felt  the  same  way  down-town." 

She  put  out  her  hand  to  take  the  black  bag, 
which  he  still  clutched;  but  at  her  touch  his 
eyes  flew  open  instantly  and  she  desisted. 

"It's  money,"  he  whispered,  when  the  use- 
lessly hovering  footman  had  been  despatched  for 
water.  "Thousands!  It  must  go  in  the — the 
library  safe.  You — you'll  help?" 

"Yes,"  she  soothed,  "I'll  help.  Be  quiet  till 
you  feel  stronger." 

He  struggled  against  his  weakness,  and  after 
fumbling  in  his  pockets  extended  a  card. 

"The  combination,"  he  explained,  painfully. 
"You — you'll  have  to  help.  It  looks  like  a 
cabinet — the  safe.  I  must  ask — ask  you — " 

And  then,  with  his  petition  half  uttered,  he 
fainted. 

Later,  as  she  sat  beside  his  bed  waiting  for 
the  doctor,  Halsey  roused  momentarily  from  the 

[308] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

lethargy  which  followed  his  swoon,  and  cast  a 
fevered  glance  around  the  room.  Olive  caught 
up  the  black  bag  and  showed  it  to  him,  empty. 

"It's  safe,  Ben,"  she  said.     "Don't  worry." 

He  tried  to  nod  his  thanks. 

"Thousands!"  he  whispered. 

She  could  well  believe  it.  The  bosom  of  her 
gown  sagged  with  the  weight  of  the  crisp  notes, 
which,  even  in  her  hasty  handling,  she  had  per- 
ceived were  chiefly  of  large  denominations.  But 
she  did  not  dwell  on  this  burden  and  its  respon- 
sibilities. Her  one  thought  was  to  soothe  the 
sick  lad,  over  whom  her  maternal  heart  yearned 
as  it  would  for  her  own  boy  in  like  distress. 
She  only  left  him  when  the  physician  took  her 
place,  and  then  went  no  farther  than  the  corri- 
dor. Here  the  doctor  found  her  waiting  when 
he  came  at  last  from  the  sick-room. 

"What  is  it?"  she  demanded. 

He  answered  with  generalities  and  directions. 

"This  medicine  is  for  the  temperature,"  he 
added;  "but  if  he  can  sleep  without  it  don't 
bother  him.  I'll  drop  hi  again  toward  evening. 
No  sign  of  rain,  do  you  think?  The  lawns  are 
beginning  to  look  parched." 

"  But  Ben?"  she  persisted.     "It  isn't  serious?" 

"I  can  tell  better  by  and  by,"  he  replied, 
guardedly.  "I  sha'n't  be  later  than  six  o'clock." 

She  resumed  her  watch  by  the  bedside,  and  the 
afternoon  dragged  on.  Toward  five  o'clock  she 
heard  her  husband's  step,  and  went  hurriedly 

[309] 


THE    WOMAN   OF    IT 

out  to  him.  Braisted  listened  to  the  news  with 
contrition,  and  tiptoeing  into  the  room  stood 
looking  gravely  down  at  his  secretary's  hot  face. 
Ben  was  battling  with  dread  phantasms  of  the 
dream  world,  and  as  Olive  shifted  the  pillow  and 
smoothed  back  the  tumbled  hair  from  his  damp 
forehead,  his  lips  moved  laboriously. 

"Thank  you— Fern,"  he  said.  "I— I  knew 
you  would  come  back." 

"Flighty!"  whispered  Braisted;  but  he  avoid- 
ed his  wife's  glance. 

Then  Halsey's  eyes  opened  wide  upon  his 
employer  with  the  probing  stare  of  the  sick. 

"Money,"  he  muttered.     "Safe." 

"That's  all  right,  old  man,"  Steve  answered. 
"I  understand." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

WHEN  the  doctor  came  a  second  time  from 
Halsey's  room  they  awaited  him  together; 
but,  as  before,  he  withheld  his  complete  diagnosis. 

"To-morrow  may  tell  another  story,"  he  said. 

"I've  worked  him  hard,"  Braisted  admitted. 
"I  see  now  that  I  piled  it  on  with  too  stiff  a 
hand.  God  knows  I'm  sorry." 

"The  work  alone  hasn't  used  him  up." 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  worried  himself  sick?" 
asked  Olive. 

"I  mean  improper  nutrition.  I  questioned 
Halsey  about  his  habits  and  learned  the  usual 
thing.  When  he  ate  at  all  he  ate  rubbish — mere 
rubbish.  The  fare  at  some  of  the  cheap  boarding- 
houses  in  this  city  would  stagger  the  digestive 
organs  of  a  shark.  Yet  these  ambitious  young 
fellows  imagine  that  they  are  saving  money!" 

"But  Halsey  didn't  need  to  scrimp,"  pro- 
tested Braisted.  "I  paid  him  well  and  thought 
he  lived  well." 

"He  explained  that  his  salary  was  generous." 

Ben's  boarding-house  thrust  its  depressing 
memory  before  Olive. 

"Oh,  why  didn't  I  make  him  leave  that  place 

[311] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

at  once?"  she  cried.  "But  I  saw  it  only  a  few 
days  ago,  and  he  told  me  the  table  was  plenti- 
ful." 

The  physician  wagged  the  didactic  finger  of  a 
man  with  a  hobby. 

"What  is  mere  plenty?"  he  scoffed.  "I  tell 
you  there  should  be  a  public  censor  of  diet." 

Steve  went  down-stairs  with  the  doctor,  but 
soon  returned  with  an  air  of  superhuman  calm 
that  roused  her  suspicion  before  he  opened  his  lips. 

"He's  sending  a  nurse,  Olive.  He  thinks  it's 
best,  and  so  do  I." 

"A  trained  nurse!" 

"I  can't  have  you  wearing  yourself  out." 

She  dismissed  this  plea  summarily. 

"The  doctor  told  you  more  than  he  would 
say  to  me,"  she  declared.  "Now,  what  is  it?" 

"He  might  have  known  you'd  worm  it  out  of 
me,"  complained  her  husband.  "He  wanted 
me  to  keep  mum  to-night  because  you  look 
fagged  out  now.  The  fact  is,  he  found  some 
symptoms  of  typhoid.  Not  all,  mind  you,"  he 
reassured,  as  her  face  blanched.  "He  was  care- 
ful to  say  that.  He'll  know  the  truth  after  he 
has  finished  one  or  two  tests.  I  can't  see  what 
the  boy  was  thinking  of  to  live  in  a  cheap  hashery 
of  that  kind,"  he  grumbled,  venting  his  worry 
in  faultfinding.  "He  has  himself  to  thank  for 
his  fix." 

"It  wasn't  for  himself,"  Olive  blurted  out, 
tearfully.  "He  was  saving  for  Fern." 

[312] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"For  Fern!     Why,  he  must  have  seen — " 

"He  wouldn't  believe  what  he  saw." 

Braisted  studied  the  floor. 

"He  has  been  talking  to  you,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes.  It  seemed  a  waste  of  breath  to  tell 
you  before,  Steve;  but  now  I'll  say  what  I 
think.  I  would  rather  my  girl  married  Ben 
Halsey  than  any  man  on  earth,  and  I  pray  God 
may  open  both  your  eyes  and  hers  to  his  real 
worth.  If  he  dies,  it  will  come  home  to  you." 

Having  imposed  a  proper  share  of  her  unrest  on 
her  husband's  shoulders,  she  went  to  watch  over 
Ben  till  the  nurse  relieved  her  of  her  charge  and 
turned  her  thoughts  toward  the  other  anxiety, 
which,  tangible  and  insistent,  pressed  its  burden 
to  her  breast.  Beyond  doubt  this  money  was 
intended  for  Hoyt.  If  she  put  it  in  the  library 
safe  it  might  find  its  way  into  his  hands  this 
very  night.  Yet,  if  she  withheld  it  and  Steve 
missed  it,  what  remained  to  her  save  a  pre- 
mature and  perhaps  fatal  exposure  of  her  hand? 

In  this  dilemma,  Steve  let  fall  a  saving  piece 
of  information.  Entering  the  library,  she  found 
him  kneeling  before  the  Louis  Quinze  cabinet, 
which  she  now  knew  concealed  beneath  its  paint 
and  gilding  a  frame  of  obstinate  steel. 

"I'm  in  a  bit  of  a  hole,"  he  said,  looking 
up.  "Perhaps  you  don't  know  it,  but  this 
bow-legged  gimcrack  is  a  safe.  See!"  He 
swung  open  the  light  outer  door  and  disclosed 
the  solid  inner  barrier.  "It  was  just  like  Larry 

21  [313] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

Colburn  to  have  a  toy  of  this  kind.  Ben  put 
me  on  to  it  this  morning.  He  had  seen  some- 
thing of  the  sort  in  New  York  where  this  was 
made,  and  suggested  that  we  use  it  for  a  little 
cash  I  was  drawing  out  to  close  a  deal." 

"How  can  you  think  of  business  now?" 

"Because  I've  got  to  think  about  it.  Don't 
set  me  down  as  hard-hearted  till  you  know  the 
facts.  Maybe  you  heard  Halsey  trying  to  tell 
me  that  the  money  was  in  this  safe?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  huskily. 

"Well,  the  awkward  thing  is  that  he's  the  only 
one  who  knows  the  combination.  He  found  it 
on  a  card  inside — the  thing  wasn't  locked  when 
he  first  examined  it — but  I  didn't  bother  to  take 
a  memorandum.  How  was  I  to  guess  that  he 
was  coming  down  sick?  I've  gone  through  the 
suit  he  wore  to-day,  but  I  couldn't  find  a  pen- 
scratch  that  would  help.  If  I'd  only  questioned 
him  up  there  when  his  mind  was  on  it!" 

"You  won't  try  to  get  it  out  of  him?"  she 
faltered. 

"What  do  you  take  me  for?"  he  retorted. 
"Even  if  I  were  such  a  fool,  do  you  suppose  the 
nurse  would  let  me  pester  him?"  He  stared 
absently  at  the  safe  for  a  moment;  then,  with 
an  ejaculation  of  relief,  rose  abruptly  and 
crossed  the  room  to  an  electric  call. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  demanded. 

"  Creevey,  of  course.  I  don't  see  why  I  didn't 
think  of  him  sooner.  Wouldn't  he,  always  pok- 

[314] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

ing  about  among  the  furniture,  have  discovered 
long  ago  what  this  is?  Ten  chances  to  one  he 
knows  the  combination." 

"Oh,  be  careful,  Steve,"  she  implored,  des- 
perately. "Don't — don't  let  a  servant  know 
you've  that  money  in  the  house." 

"Trust  me!" 

The  butler  answered  the  summons  in  person. 

"You  know  that  this  cabinet  is  a  safe?"  said 
Braisted. 

"Yes,  sir.     Of  course,  sir." 

"I  want  to  examine  it,  but  it's  locked." 

"Is  it,  sir?"  Creevey's  expression  told  noth- 
ing. 

"I  thought  you  might  possibly  remember  the 
combination." 

"I  never  knew  it,  sir." 

"Why,  I  had  an  idea  you  might  have  stored 
some  of  the  silver  there  in  the  Colburns'  time." 

"No,  sir.  The  plate  was  all  kept  in  the  vault 
off  the  butler's  pantry." 

"  That's  all.     If  you  don't  know  it,  you  don't." 

"Sorry,  sir." 

"The  business  will  simply  have  to  wait  till 
the  doctor  speaks  out,"  said  Braisted,  as  Creevey 
withdrew.  "If  Halsey  is  really  in  for  something 
serious,  I  can  wire  the  manufacturers  to  send 
down  an  expert.  Probably  we'll  know  where  we 
stand  in  the  morning." 

She  was  giddy  with  relief.  She  was  sure  of  a 
night's  delay,  and  even  if  Steve  sent  for  an  ex- 

[315] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

pert  on  the  morrow  many  more  hours,  perhaps 
a  day  or  two,  might  elapse  before  the  safe  gave 
up  its  secret.  Meanwhile,  she  must  somehow 
compass  their  deliverance.  Surely  Estabrook, 
with  his  clear  brain,  would  find  a  loophole. 

As  her  thoughts  reverted  to  the  lawyer,  she 
recalled  his  advice  that  Ben  Halsey  should  fol- 
low the  butler  if  he  left  the  house  that  night. 
And  Ben,  with  exhausted  body  and  wandering 
wits,  lay  above  stairs  in  the  custody  of  a  nurse! 
Necessity  pointed  to  a  single  course,  and  when, 
on  the  stroke  of  nine,  Creevey  let  himself  out  of 
the  servants'  door  and  sauntered  round  into  the 
dusky  avenue,  Olive,  with  swift-beating  heart, 
glided  at  a  discreet  distance  in  his  wake. 

They  had  thus  covered  scarcely  half  the  block 
when  he  startled  her  by  darting  into  a  thick 
clump  of  shrubbery  at  the  edge  of  a  lawn  lying 
open  to  the  sidewalk,  and  then,  even  as  she 
made  hasty  choice  of  a  post  to  watch  and  wait, 
a  street-light  revealed  Hoyt  making  his  way 
across  the  pavement.  He  came  on  by  the  but- 
ler's hiding-place  unsuspiciously,  and  an  instant 
later  passed  her  own.  Then  the  great  door 
clanged  and  Creevey  tranquilly  resumed  his 
stroll. 

With  that  beginning,  Olive  was  alert  for  ad- 
ventures; but  thereafter  her  errand  wore  the 
aspect  of  a  wild-goose  chase.  Creevey  had 
seemingly  no  fixed  objective.  Wrapped  in  medi- 
tative enjoyment  of  the  cooling  breeze  which 

[316] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

had  attended  nightfall,  he  strolled  from  street 
to  park  and  from  park  to  avenue  without  heed 
of  time  or  needless  steps.  Once,  as  they  bi- 
sected one  of  the  city's  familiar  circles,  he  paused 
and  bent  his  reverend  head  above  a  flowering 
shrub  which  scattered  abroad  an  exotic  fragrance; 
and  again,  as  they  followed  a  bright-lit  thorough- 
fare to  the  lower  city,  he  stopped  for  a  leisured  in- 
terval in  a  tobacconist's,  which  he  quitted  at  last 
puffing  a  cigarette  of  an  odor  as  bizarre  and 
musky  as  the  shrub. 

Thence  the  chase  led  through  business  streets, 
past  hotels,  saloons,  and  gay  shop-windows,  all 
garish  with  electricity,  and  many  of  them  in- 
teresting to  the  loitering  Creevey;  but  halting 
when  he  halted,  and  avoiding  the  blaze  of  light 
where  she  could,  Olive,  from  the  farther  curb, 
kept  him  ever  in  view,  and  in  the  weary  end,  con- 
vinced that  she  had  performed  a  fool's  errand, 
had  her  dubious  reward.  They  had  come  into 
a  region  of  department-stores  and  office-buildings, 
when  Creevey  tossed  his  second  cigarette  into 
the  gutter  and  turned  into  a  narrow  hallway  lit 
by  a  single  feeble  gas-jet.  Olive  crossed  the 
street,  and,  listening  in  the  doorway,  heard  him 
mount  flight  after  flight  of  stairs,  till  gaining,  as 
it  seemed,  the  topmost  floor,  he  paused  and  gave 
a  measured  knock.  Then  a  door  opened  and 
closed,  and  the  hall  was  still.  A  directory  level 
with  her  eyes  told  her  that  this  was  an  office 
building,  and,  as  her  glance  took  in  the  tarnished 

[317] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

lettering,  it  told  her  something  else  which  ap- 
parently stamped  the  whole  affair  with  futility. 
Returning  to  the  opposite  sidewalk,  she  scanned 
the  top  story,  and  the  light  which  shone  only 
from  three  certain  windows  corroborated  the 
signboard's  testimony  that  the  pursuit  of  Creevey 
had  ended,  of  all  absurd  places,  in  the  beauty- 
parlor  of  Madam  Sheba! 

Stationing  herself  in  another  hallway,  she 
lingered,  hi  the  hope  that  this  call  might  be  a 
passing  episode,  rather  than  the  tame  anti- 
climax of  her  quest.  The  nephew  and  successor 
of  the  late  Madam  Sheba  could  have  naught  to 
do  with  her  problem.  Charlatans  both,  he  and 
Creevey  were  probably  friends  bound  by  a 
common  aim  to  gull  the  simple.  Yet,  if  he  had 
an  errand,  the  butler  would  seem  to  have  accom- 
plished it  when,  after  some  twenty  or  more 
minutes,  he  descended,  and  with  the  same  air 
of  infinite  leisure  sauntered  to  the  nearest  street 
corner,  hailed  a  Chevy  Chase  car,  and  was  borne 
rapidly  away. 

Olive  took  the  next  car  herself,  and  in  pro- 
found digust  rode  to  the  Walden.  The  measure 
in  which  Estabrook  had  put  his  trust  had  revealed 
nothing  save  Creevey 's  desire  to  avoid  Hoyt; 
but  she  felt  an  imperative  need  to  see  the  lawyer 
without  delay.  As  she  crossed  the  white  circle 
cast  by  the  arc  light  at  the  street  corner  the 
high-pitched  voice  of  a  colored  girl  wished  her 
good  evening,  and  she  recognized  the  maid 

[318] 


THE   WOMAN    OF   IT 

Milly,  in  festal  purple,  also  bound  toward  the 
hotel. 

"I  wa'n't  shore  at  first,"  she  laughed,  showing 
all  her  white  teeth.  "You  suttinly  do  look 
diff  rent,  Mis'  Braisted." 

"These  aren't  new  clothes,"  said  Olive,  kind- 
ly. "You've  helped  me  into  this  black  dress 
many  a  time." 

"Yas'm.  An*  las'  time  it  wouldn't  hook  no- 
how. That's  what  I  mean.  You  must  have 
lost  a  lot  of  flesh.  Even  befo'  you  left  the 
Walden  I  see  it  a-goin'." 

This  expert  opinion  did  not  elate  Olive  as  it 
would  have  done  some  months  ago.  She  would 
rather  have  gone  churn-shaped  forever  than 
undergo  the  worry  that  had  destroyed  her 
appetite  and  peace  of  mind. 

"This  weather  would  make  an  elephant  thin," 
she  sighed. 

"  'Deed  it  would,"  agreed  Milly.  "It  beats 
Madam  Sheba  what  I  tol'  you  of  las'  winter.  I 
heard  a  funny  thing  about  that  place  to-day." 

"About  Madam  Sheba's?" 

"Yas'm.  Do  you  'member  the  Mis'  Finch  I 
tol'  you  tried  the  'nasties  an'  got  thin?" 

"Yes." 

"An'  the  Baltimo'  girl  who  puttended  she 
used  to  be  fat  an'  wrinkled?" 

"Yes,  I  remember." 

"Well,  Mis'  Finch  come  back  yesterday  fo'  a 
spell,  an*  when  I  sayd  she  was  lookin'  stout 

[319] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

again  she  reckoned  she'd  better  mosey  down 
to  the  beauty-parlor  straightaway.  When  she 
come  back  she  asked  me  what  I  think?  I  sayd 
I  dunno,  an'  she  tol'  me  how  another  handsome 
young  woman  met  her  an',  word  fo'  word,  started 
to  reel  off  the  first  girl's  lingo  about  losin'  her 
wrinkles  an'  bein'  a  sight  older  than  she  looked. 
Mis'  Finch  sayd  she  jes'  bust  out  laffin  in  her 
face.  Then  the  woman,  she  laffed,  too,  an' 
'splained  how  she  wa'n't  there  reg'lar,  but  was 
on'y  tryin'  her  hand  fo'  fun  while  the  other  girl 
took  a  few  days  off." 

The  maid's  gossip  charged  Creevey's  visit 
with  significance,  and  Olive  delayed  to  put  one 
or  two  careless  questions  about  the  new-comer 
at  Madam  Sheba's;  but  Milly  could  recall  no 
detail  save  bleached  hair.  This  sufficed  to  heart- 
en her,  however.  Perhaps  her  quest  had  not 
been  fruitless,  after  all. 

She  was  spared  the  necessity  of  asking  for 
Estabrook.  As  she  entered  the  lobby  she  saw 
him  watching  a  game  of  bridge.  His  glance 
told  her  he  understood  that  she  was  in  search 
of  him;  but  Mrs.  Tully  spied  her  at  the  same 
instant,  and,  thrusting  her  cards  into  Esta- 
brook's  hands,  hastened  across  the  room. 

"My  dear,"  she  protested,  "why  did  you 
bother?  I  should  have  come  to  you  in  the 
morning  to  say  good-by.  I  am  so  sorry  about 
poor  young  Halsey.  When  you  didn't  turn  up 
for  luncheon  I  suspected  sickness  and  finally 

[320] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

'phoned.  They  couldn't  find  you — it  was  about 
an  hour  ago — but  your  husband  talked  with 
me." 

"The  luncheon  popped  right  out  of  my  mind," 
confessed  Olive,  who  in  strict  truth  had  not 
thought  of  it  since  the  far-away  past  of  yester- 
day. "If  I  had  done  such  a  thing  to  Mrs.  Pratt 
I  should  shake  in  my  boots.  She  would  take  it 
as  an  insult  to  the  House  of  Representatives." 

"Poor  Harriet!  She  left  to-day  in  tears,  and 
she'll  count  the  days  till  December  brings  her 
back.  I  understand  the  feeling.  My  throat 
will  be  lumpy,  too,  when  I  go  to-morrow.  We 
care  for  our  homes,  of  course;  but  Washington 
stands  for  something  in  most  of  our  lives  that 
the  homes  can't  supply.  For  Harriet,  as  I  hap- 
pen to  know,  it  means  a  touch  of  gay  color  in 
an  existence  otherwise  drab.  You  would  care 
for  Washington  yourself  if  you  needed  it." 

"Oh,  as  for  needing  it,  nobody  could  have 
come  here  greener  than  I  was.  You  know  that 
best  of  all." 

"You've  twisted  my  meaning.  I'm  talking 
of  the  women  with  starved  lives." 

"Well,  anyhow,  I've  grown  to  like  Washing- 
ton," said  Olive,  voicing  a  truth  she  had  been 
slow  to  realize.  "It  has  come  about  in  spite  of 
me,  but  I  do.  Another  winter,  I'm  going  to  try 
your  recipe  and  hunt  for  the  funny  side  of 
things." 

The  old  lady  nodded  brightly. 

[321] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"I  hope  I  shall  be  here  to  help,"  she  replied. 
"If  I'm  not — well,  I  dare  say  I'll  find  it  else- 
where." 

As  Olive  said  good  night  to  the  group  at  the 
whist-table  Estabrook  surrendered  his  cards 
and  asked  if  he  might  put  her  in  her  carriage. 

"It's  a  street-car,"  she  announced,  for  those 
who  listened;  "but  I'll  be  glad  of  help.  The 
conductors  hurry  me  so."  As  they  passed  out 
she  added:  "We'd  better  take  a  cab  when  we 
get  round  the  corner.  I  must  put  a  lot  of  money 
in  your  hands." 

He  gave  her  a  look  of  frank  admiration. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  bagged  the 
sinews  of  war?" 

"I  think  so." 

"What  a  woman  you  are!" 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

HE  exclaimed  again  when  in  the  dusk  of  the 
cab  she  displayed  the  money  and  told  him 
the  day's  happenings. 

"I'm  glad  your  husband  does  business  on  a 
cash  basis,"  he  commented,  thoughtfully.  "Hoyt 
probably  doesn't  hold  a  line  of  his  writing  that 
could  be  used  as  a  club  in  the  future.  And  speak- 
ing of  the  future,  I  think  that,  no  matter  how 
this  affair  turns  out,  you  had  better  say  nothing 
of  my  part  in  it.  If  he  knows  that  I  know,  it  will 
always  stand  as  an  awkward  bar  between  us. 
I  don't  intend  to  mention  it  to  my  wife.  The 
loss  of  her  money  will  be  lesson  enough.'* 

"I  sha'n't  harp  on  it,  goodness  knows,"  said 
Olive.  "It  will  be  enough  for  me  to  sleep  nights 
as  I  used  before  I  laid  eyes  on  this  thieving  crew. 
But  I  don't  see  sleep  ahead  of  me  yet.  After 
all,  things  haven't  greatly  altered  since  I  saw 
you  this  afternoon. ' 

"Haven't  they,  though!"  He  lifted  one  of  the 
bundles  of  bank-notes  with  a  chuckle.  "When 
you  picked  up  this  hand  you  drew  trumps." 

"We  can't  conceal  the  fact  that  we  have  it 
very  long." 

[323] 


THE    WOMAN   OF   IT 

"The  main  point  is  that  you  have  it.  An- 
other point  is  that  now  I  know  Hoyt's  operations 
are  crooked." 

"You've  found  out  things,  too?" 

"Yes.  This  morning  I  said  the  scheme  looked 
bogus.  To-night  I'm  sure  of  it.  You  see,  I  did 
a  little  discreet  investigating  when  I  got  back 
to  the  Land  Office.  Mrs.  Braisted,  Hoyt  has  never 
controlled  an  acre  of  that  timber  land." 

"Then  Steve—' 

"He  has  paid  something  for  nothing — paid  it 
as  trustingly  as  a  child.  If  Hoyt  showed  him 
scrip,  it  was  faked.  I've  never  come  across  a 
more  barefaced  swindle.  Yet,  in  a  way,  it's 
a  comforting  discovery." 

"I  don't  see  how." 

"I  mean  that  there  is  no  question  of  defraud- 
ing the  Government,  for  Uncle  Sam  has  never 
given  this  particular  tract  away." 

Olive  shook  her  head  wearily. 

"I  can't  pretend  I  understand  it,"  she  said; 
"but  I'm  glad  to  hear  of  anything  that  makes 
this  business  look  any  less  black.  What  must  we 
do  next?" 

"Hold  on  to  that  money  and  watch  the  rascals 
squirm.  I  believe  they're  already  at  logger- 
heads— Hoyt  on  one  side,  Creevey  and  that 
woman  on  the  other.  If  Creevey  had  known  that 
Hoyt  expected  to  pocket  this  bank-roll  to-night 
he'd  never  have  left  the  house.  If  he  had  had 
the  faintest  suspicion,  he  would  have  turned 

[324] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

back  when  he  saw  him.  Yet  he,  on  his  part,  is 
carrying  on  some  intrigue.  His  dodging  Hoyt 
shows  that.  Last  of  all,  to  give  the  situation 
its  final  corkscrew  twist,  is  it  credible  that  your 
butler  doesn't  know  the  combination  of  the 
library  safe?  Hasn't  he  every  other  detail  of 
the  house  at  his  finger-ends?  If  we  assume  he  is 
a  spy,  we  can't  escape  that  inference." 

"If  he  knows  it,  why  not  Hoyt?" 

"Probably  he  does  know  it;  but  he  wouldn't 
be  fool  enough  to  let  your  husband  suspect  the 
fact.  Moreover,  he  won't  drop  a  whisper  about 
his  disappointment  to-night  to  Creevey,  if  he 
is  trying  to  do  him  out  of  his  share  of  the 
spoils." 

"But  what  if  he  isn't  trying  to  cheat  him? 
What  if  he  does  tell  him  that  Steve  had  the 
money  put  in  the  safe?" 

"In  order  to  get  him  to  find  out  if  it's  really 
there?" 

"Yes.  What  will  Hoyt  think  if  he  reports 
that  the  safe  is  empty?" 

"He'll  think  he's  a  liar,  and  Creevey  will  re- 
turn the  compliment." 

"And  where  does  that  lead  us?" 

"To  the  blonde  in  the  beauty-parlor.  About 
that  stage  I  think  that  if  properly  handled  she'll 
tell  what  she  knows.  If  Creevey  gets  the  notion 
that  he  has  been  tricked,  this  manicure  woman 
may  even  talk  without  coaxing." 

Olive  rode  a  moment  in  silence. 

[325] 


THE   WOMAN    OF   IT 

"If  it  comes  to  a  pinch,"  she  declared,  "I'll 
go  and  see  her." 

"Good!"  said  Estabrook.  "She  would  say 
more  to  you  than  to  anybody  else.  And  now, 
before  I  hop  out,  I  want  to  give  you  back  this 
imposing  consignment  of  legal-tender." 

"Give  it  back!     Why?" 

"Because  you  may  want  to  lay  hands  on  it  at 
short  notice.  As  I  said  at  the  outset  to-night, 
it  will  be  far  better  if  I  keep  in  the  background. 
And  another  thing:  I  am  a  man  and  can  make 
a  fair  guess  at  another  man's  feelings,  and  I 
know  that  Braisted  will  think  better  of  himself 
afterward  if  he's  given  a  chance  to  help  now. 
It  may  not  be  possible  to  do  it,  but  if  you 
can,  wind  up  this  business  shoulder  to  shoul- 
der." 

The  servant  who  let  her  in  told  her  smilingly 
that  a  gentleman  was  waiting  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  queried. 

"He  asked  me  not  to  mention  his  name.  He 
wants  to  take  you  by  surprise." 

Olive  felt  in  no  mood  for  surprises,  and  went 
listlessly  to  meet  the  unknown,  whom  she  sup- 
posed some  neighbor  from  Tuscarora.  As  she 
neared  the  drawing-room  Eli  Yale  trotted  out, 
and  in  dog  language  gave  her  such  an  ardent 
welcome  that  she  stooped  to  him  with  a  lesser 
wave  of  the  gratitude  of  the  sad  night  when 
they  first  plighted  friendship. 

[326] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Gee  whiz!"  said  a  voice  from  the  doorway. 
"I  knew  you'd  appreciate  him  in  time;  but  I 
didn't  expect  this!" 

"S.  J.!     What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"Aren't  you  glad  to  see  me?" 

His  mother  swept  him  into  an  embrace  which 
set  that  question  at  rest.  From  the  canine  point 
of  view  it  seemed  a  grapple  of  hostile  powers  re- 
quiring an  offensive  alliance  with  one  or  the 
other  belligerent.  It  would  have  been  a  mo- 
ment of  painful  indecision  for  a  weak  character; 
but  Eli  was  no  paltering  casuist,  and  his  choice 
of  sides  was  instant.  Aligning  himself  with 
Olive,  he  turned  on  his  former  master  the  Har- 
vard-defying grimace  that  S.  J.  himself  had 
taught  him,  and  by  way  of  emphasis  threw  in  a 
truculent  snarl  peculiarly  his  own. 

"You  ungrateful  cuss!"  laughed  S.  J.  "I  dis- 
own you." 

The  war  cloud  dissipated,  Eli  yawned  indiffer- 
ently, trailed  after  them  into  the  drawing-room, 
and,  settling  himself  at  Olive's  feet,  cocked 
a  suspicious  eye  when  she  laid  her  hand  on 
S.  J.'s  shoulder  and  bade  him  be  open  and 
above  board  with  his  mother. 

"You  sent  word  that  you  wouldn't  be  home  till 
the  third  week  in  June,"  she  added.  "Now 
what  has  happened?" 

The  collegian  wriggled. 

"You're  every  bit  as  bad  as  father,"  he  pro- 
tested. "He  thought  I'd  been  expelled." 

[327] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"I  know  better  than  that.  I  know,  too,  that 
you're  not  sick,  like  poor  Ben  up-stairs." 

"I'm  mighty  sorry  for  Halsey,"  said  S.  J., 
welcoming  the  digression.  "I  went  right  up  as 
soon  as  I  heard.  The  nurse  told  me  he  was 
sleeping  comfortably.  I  hope  you  are  feeling 
fit,  mother.  You  look  thin." 

"So  I'm  told — even  by  Steve.  But  never 
mind  me.  We  were  talking  about  your  coming 
home  so  early." 

"I  was  through  with  my  exams.  Passed  'em, 
too." 

"But  the  boat-race  isn't  over.  You  expected 
to  stay  for  that.  Your  head  was  full  of  it." 

"Oh,  bother  it  all,  mother,"  he  blurted  out, 
coloring,  "I  came  straight  home  to  be  with  you. 
That's  the  reason.  I — I  got  the  idea  that,  with 
Fern  away  and  father  busy,  you  were  lonesome 
and — and  worried." 

Olive  was  touched  and  puzzled. 

"What  gave  you  that  notion?"  she  asked, 
gently. 

Her  son  squirmed  afresh. 

"What  a  cross-examiner  you  are!  It  was  Miss 
Blount  put  it  in  my  head,  if  you  must  know." 

"When  did  she  talk  to  you?" 

"The  day  I  ran  down  to  New  York  last  week. 
She's  a  queer  girl.  She's  not  as  old  as  I  am, 
but  she  talked  to  me  like  a  grandmother,  and 
what  she  said  was  sense.  I  saw,  as  I  didn't  at 
Easter,  that — well,  that  you  weren't  having  a 

[328] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

square  deal  and — and  so  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  cut  the  race." 

"You're  a  good  boy." 

"I'm  a  pinhead,"  he  said,  with  .humility.  "I 
ought  to  have  seen  things  without  a  girl  to  poke 
me  up.  Now  what's  worrying  you,  mother?" 

"What  should  worry  me,  dearie?"  she  laughed. 

Her  lightness  seemed  forced  to  his  awakened 
solicitude. 

"I  know  you're  fond  of  old  Ben,"  he  per- 
sisted; "but  you  can't  have  got  thin  in  a  day  on 
his  account.  Why  don't  you  tell  a  fellow?" 

Olive  longed  to  pour  out  the  whole  story,  but 
loyalty  to  Steve  stopped  her  lips.  She  could 
freely  confide  in  Estabrook,  because  he  judged 
with  the  leniency  impossible  to  kinship  and 
youth.  S.  J.  would  see  with  the  eyes  of  a  son, 
and  Steve's  folly  would  ever  stand  between  him 
and  complete  respect.  She  might  pardonably 
have  recalled  that  the  man  had  seldom  spared 
her  in  their  children's  eyes;  but  she  had  never 
borne  a  grudge  in  her  life,  and  the  petty  thought 
did  not  cross  her  mind  now  as  she  parried  S.  J.'s 
questions. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  said,  "if  you  won't,  why,  you 
won't.  I  didn't  know  but  you  had  father  and 
that  Hoyt  man  on  your  mind." 

"Why?" 

"They're  so  confoundedly  mysterious.  They 
are  powwowing  in  the  library  now.  It  was  bad 
enough  at  Easter,  but  to-night  father  can't  even 

22 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

spare  time  to  be  civil.  I'd  no  sooner  shaken 
hands  and  convinced  him  that  I  hadn't  been 
fired  than  he  put  me  out  of  the  room.  Are  you 
still  in  the  dark,  too?" 

"No.     I  know  what  it's  all  about." 

"Is  it  so  tremendous?" 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it  came  to  nothing 
in  the  end,"  she  said. 

"Shouldn't  you?  What  a  sell!  Here  comes 
father  now." 

Steve  put  his  hand  on  his  son's  shoulder. 

"I'm  mighty  glad  to  see  you,  my  boy,"  he 
said. 

"You  didn't  seem  glad  when  I  went  into  the 
library,"  responded  that  young  gentleman,  coldly. 

"Business  is  business,"  said  Braisted,  sen- 
tentiously.  "You'll  be  learning  that  when  this 
college  picnic  is  over.  Been  out,  Olive?" 

"Yes,  to  the  Walden.  I  owed  Mrs.  Tully  an 
apology  for  forgetting  her  luncheon.  She  told 
me  that  you  explained  things  over  the  'phone. 
Has  Mr.  Hoyt  gone?" 

"No.  I  left  him  in  the  library  writing  a  letter 
— something  he'd  forgotten." 

As  father  and  son  fell  into  conversation  to- 
gether, she  slipped  out  of  the  room  unnoted 
save  by  Eli  Yale,  who  followed,  his  claws 
rattling  noisily  wherever  he  trod  the  hard 
floor.  Once  outside  the  drawing-room,  she  tried 
to  send  the  dog  back;  but  he  genially  declined 
to  forsake  her,  and  she  therefore  seized  him  by 

[330] 


THE    WOMAN    OF   IT 

the  collar  and  guided  him  quietly  from  rug  to 
rug  till  they  reached  the  library  threshold.  She 
believed  that  Hoyt's  letter-writing  was  a  mere 
ruse,  and  her  first  glance  past  the  half-open 
door  justified  her  suspicion.  He  was  at  neither 
the  reading-table  nor  the  desk. 

The  Braisteds'  predecessors  had  made  use  of 
many  screens  about  the  place,  which,  like  most 
large  houses,  was  subject  to  wandering  draughts, 
and  one  of  these  safeguards,  an  affair  of  stamped 
and  gilded  leather,  still  occupied  its  winter 
station  just  within  the  library  door.  Behind  this 
Olive  slipped,  and  through  the  narrow  slit  be- 
tween its  hinges  reconnoitered  the  room.  Hoyt 
knelt  where  she  expected  to  find  him,  and  both 
the  inner  and  outer  doors  of  the  cabinet  safe 
were  wide  open.  Then,  before  she  could  even 
question  whether  she  would  confront  him,  Eli 
Yale,  who  had  entered  muzzle  to  the  floor, 
broke  from  her  now  lax  custody  and  pounced 
upon  the  enemy. 

There  was  a  brief  and,  at  first,  silent  struggle. 
Hoyt  went  down  on  his  hands  under  the  im- 
pact; but,  scrambling  to  his  feet,  contrived,  at 
the  cost  of  a  ruined  coat,  to  hurl  the  dog  from 
him  and  seize  a  chair,  which  he  wielded  alter- 
nately as  bludgeon  and  shield  while  he  kicked 
at  the  yawning  doors  of  the  safe.  But  Eli, 
enraged  by  his  failure  to  close  with  his  foe,  be- 
gan of  a  sudden  to  vary  his  frantic  lunges  with 
insults  of  such  deep-throated  vigor  as  put  a 

[331] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

quiet  settlement  out  of  the  question.  Collect- 
ing her  wits,  Olive  darted  back  into  the  hall,  and 
when  the  others,  alarmed  by  the  fracas,  came 
trooping  from  the  drawing-room,  she  met  them 
as  if  she  knew  no  more  of  the  affair  than  they 
and  passed  into  the  library  in  then*  company. 
By  now  Hoyt  had  managed  to  shift  the  line  of 
battle  some  half-dozen  paces  from  the  cabinet. 

"The  dog's  mad,"  he  called,  fending  off  the 
animal's  rushes. 

"Mad  your  grandmother!"  retorted  S.  J., 
indignantly.  "He's  had  provocation  of  some 
kind." 

Braisted  shouldered  to  the  front  with  a  poker. 

"Out  of  the  way,  S.  J.,"  he  ordered.  "I'll 
fix  the  vicious  brute." 

Olive  stayed  his  hand  in  time,  caught  Eli  by 
the  collar,  and,  amid  a  rain  of  warnings,  queries, 
and  apologies  from  Steve,  easily  reduced  the  dog 
to  his  usual  docile  self  and  turned  him  over  to 
her  grinning  son. 

"Shut  him  up  somewhere  till  Mr.  Hoyt  leaves 
the  house,"  she  directed;  and  then,  for  his  ear 
only,  added:  "Go  to  bed,  son.  I  must  have  a 
talk  with  your  father." 

Yielding  Eli  a  wide  path  in  his  triumphant 
retreat,  Hoyt  began  to  edge  casually  toward  the 
safe,  which  still  stood  ajar.  He  was  yet  short  of 
the  goal,  however,  when  Olive,  affecting  none  of 
his  carelessness,  forestalled  him  by  taking  her 
stand  before  the  cabinet  with  a  look  in  which 

[33*] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

she  deliberately  meant  him  to  read  his  checkmate. 
End  as  the  situation  might,  she  was  bound  that 
he  should  not  nullify  the  evidence  of  that  open 
door. 

Braisted,  heeding  nothing  of  this,  still  labored 
at  his  apologies. 

"I'll  see  that  the  beast  gets  his  medicine, 
Hoyt,"  he  promised.  "I  don't  propose  to  give 
a  public  nuisance  the  run  of  my  premises.  Are 
you  sure  his  teeth  didn't  go  deeper  than  the 
cloth?" 

"Quite.     Say  no  more  about  it,  my  friend." 

"I  sha'n't  let  the  matter  drop  till  I've  squared 
the  damages.  Mind  you  send  me  the  tailor's 
bill  for  a  new  suit." 

Hoyt  shrugged  as  if  the  discussion  bored  him, 
and  with  a  formal  bow  to  Olive  moved  toward 
the  door. 

"Oh,  don't  go  yet,"  Steve  objected.  "Have 
a  drink  first.  My  mouth  is  watering  for  one  of 
Creevey's  mint-juleps.  He  has  learned  to  do 
the  trick  almost  as  well  as  a  native." 

The  refusal  which  obviously  hung  upon  Hoyt's 
lips  checked  itself  at  the  butler's  name. 

"Hasn't  Creevey  gone  to  bed?"  he  asked. 
"It's  after  midnight." 

Braisted  prodded  the  electric  button. 

"We'll  soon  know.  I  give  the  chap  his  eve- 
nings; but  they  tell  me  he  never  stays  out  long. 
He'd  rather  spend  his  time  reading  up  antiques." 

But  the  second  butler  disclosed  that  his  su- 

[333] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

perior  had  for  once  relaxed  his  studious  habit. 
It  was  his  drowsy  impression  that  Creevey  had 
gone  to  a  roof-garden,  but  of  this  he  was  not  at 
all  sure.  In  any  case,  Creevey  had  not  yet  re- 
turned. As  this  fact  clearly  established  itself, 
Hoyt  pushed  into  the  hall  and  abruptly  took  him- 
self off. 

Braisted  re-entered  the  library  with  a  puzzled 
face. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think  of  Hoyt,"  he 
said.  "Didn't  I  do  everything  I  could  to  make 
up  for  that  infernal  dog?" 

"Too  much." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that;  but,  anyhow, 
the  fellow  flew  off  in  a  huff.  He  never  stopped 
even  to  say  good  night." 

"If  you  had  stood  near  this  window  you  might 
have  heard  him  run." 

"Run!" 

"Like  the  thief  he  is." 

"That's  strong  language  to  apply  to  a  friend 
of  mine." 

"Is  it?"  She  stepped  aside  and  let  the  cabi- 
net— unlocked,  gaping,  empty — tell  its  story. 
"Judge  for  yourself,  Steve." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

/^RUSHED  by  the  mute  evidence  of  the  safe, 
^~/  it  was  a  simple  task  to  show  him  his  folly. 
But  Olive  was  at  once  too  generous  and  too  im- 
patient to  prolong  her  triumph,  and  no  sooner 
saw  him  convinced  than  she  completed  her  con- 
fession, and,  between  tears  and  laughter,  heaped 
his  lap  with  the  lost  money. 

"You  beat  him,  Ollie!  You!  You!"  For  a 
time  he  could  only  repeat  this  wondering  cry. 
Then  the  mere  feel  of  the  crisp  notes  seemed  to 
work  a  physical  reaction  in  the  man.  He  re- 
membered that  the  world  outside  knew  nothing 
of  his  humiliation.  He  took  heart,  and  even  be- 
gan to  exult.  "We've  got  him!"  he  said.  "He's 
dropped  his  big  stake.  He's  lost  his  grip  on  me 
altogether.  When  he  nosed  into  that  safe  the 
game  went  out  of  his  hands.  He  daren't  black- 
mail me  after  a  job  like  that.  By  heaven,  I'd 
shell  out  another  thousand  or  two  to  see  his  face 
when  he  hears  that  old  Creevey  hasn't  the  goods 
either.  They  may  be  jawing  it  out  together 
right  now." 

"Mightn't  Creevey  be  the  brains  of  it  all?" 
"It's  possible.     But  Hoyt  is  no  fool,  let  me 

[335] 


THE    WOMAN   OF    IT 

tell  you.  It  was  his  inside  knowledge  of  Mar- 
shall Blount  that  took  me  in.  How  was  I  to 
guess  where  he'd  got  his  information?  Perhaps 
Creevey  used  to  be  in  asphalt,  too.  Then  there's 
that  manicure  woman !  I  wish  I  knew  the  whole 
truth  about  this  gang." 

"I  don't.  I  hope  we  never  lay  eyes  on  any 
of  them." 

A  startling  idea  lit  Braisted's  face. 

**  I'm  not  dead  sure  that  we're  done  with  them !" 
he  exclaimed.  "What  if  Creevey  did  go  to  a 
roof -garden  after  you  lost  sight  of  him?" 

"Steve!    You  don't  think  he'll  come  back?" 

"I  certainly  wish  he  would.  Don't  you  worry 
that  there  would  be  a  row.  I'd  be  tempted  to 
kick  Hoyt  down-stairs;  but  Creevey  would  be 
safe.  I  can't  help  respecting  a  swindler  as 
smooth  as  he  is.  I'd  peel  a  bill  of  three  figures 
off  this  roll  if  he  would  answer  my  questions. 
It  would  be  a  good  investment." 

Olive  shuddered  at  that  word  of  ill-omen. 

"I've  had  investments  enough  for  one  life- 
time," she  retorted,  "and  as  for  calmly  dis- 
cussing his  rascality  with  Creevey  himself,  why, 
put  the  idea  right  out  of  your  head.  If  there 
is  a  bolt  on  the  servants'  door,  I'll  slip  it;  if 
there  isn't,  I'll  drive  a  nail." 

Braisted  submitted  humbly. 

"Have  it  your  own  way,  Ollie,"  he  said. 
"God  knows  you  have  earned  the  right.  It 
will  take  me  the  rest  of  my  days  to  thank  you. 

[336] 


THE   WOMAN    OF    IT 

You're  the  real  success  of  this  family.  I'm 
only  an  accident." 

As  they  left  the  library  at  last  they  con- 
fronted Halsey's  trained  nurse. 

"He's  not  worse?"  demanded  Olive,  taking 
instant  alarm. 

"No,  better;  much  better,"  said  the  woman. 
"I  think  one  of  your  servants  is  locked  out.  At 
least,  some  one  has  been  signaling  at  the  back 
for  several  minutes.  No  one  answered  my  ring, 
so  I  started  down  to  investigate." 

"I'll  attend  to  it,"  said  Braisted,  promptly. 

Husband  and  wife  stared  into  each  other's 
eyes  as  the  nurse  retraced  her  noiseless  way  to 
the  sick-room. 

"He's  come!" 

"Remember  your  promise,  Steve.'* 

"It  seems  a  cowardly  trick  to  skulk  here." 

"It  is  common  sense.  The  man  is  a  criminal. 
He  probably  goes  armed." 

"Did  you  stop  to  think  of  that  when  you  fol- 
lowed him?" 

"That  was  different.  He  wouldn't  have  at- 
tacked a  woman." 

"There  is  no  question  of  a  row,  I  tell  you,  and 
even  if  there  were,  I'm  carrying  a  revolver.  I 
slipped  it  in  my  pocket  when  I  found  the  money 
would  have  to  lie  in  the  house  to-night.  It's 
only  human  nature  that  I  should  be  keen  to  get 
to  the  bottom  of  this  bunco-game.  I  wouldn't 
feel  half  so  sore." 

[337] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

Estabrook's  forgotten  words  recurred  to  her. 
"Wind  up  this  business  shoulder  to  shoulder." 
Had  she  permitted  Steve  the  share  which  was  to 
salve  his  pride  and  make  for  future  happiness? 

"Talk  to  him  if  your  heart  is  set  on  it,"  she 
yielded,  "but  let  me  stand  by." 

"This  is  something  like  it,"  he  said,  and  led 
the  way. 

As  they  passed  an  open  window  in  descending, 
they  heard  the  signal,  a  low  whistle  of  three 
descending  notes,  which  Steve  imitated  as  he  set 
the  door  ajar  and  waited  in  the  thick  obscurity 
of  the  entry. 

"I  thought — I  thought — "  came  a  broken, 
reproachful  whisper;  and  then  a  shape  which, 
even  in  that  gloom,  could  not  be  mistaken  for 
the  butler,  slipped  through  the  opening,  and  with 
a  most  unmasculine  sigh  of  relief  glided  into 
Braisted's  astonished  arms. 

"Suffering  cats!"  he  ejaculated, and  set  his  back 
against  the  door.  "  The  light,  Ollie !  The  light !" 

Flooding  the  entry,  the  pitiless  electricity  re- 
vealed the  manicurist  huddled  against  the  farther 
wall. 

"What  do  you  want  of  me?"  she  gasped,  her 
dazzled  eyes  shifting  desperately  from  one  to 
the  other;  then,  taking  courage  from  their  own 
bewilderment,  "You — you  frightened  me." 

Braisted  seized  the  mastery  of  the  situation. 

"  We  want  you  to  tell  the  truth,"  he  said,  sternly. 

"I  don't  understand—" 

[388] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"Oh  yes,  you  do.  Quit  shamming.  It's  no 
use.  The  jig  is  up!" 

She  flashed  him  a  wary  look,  folded  her  arms, 
and,  with  a  defiant  uplift  of  her  blond  head, 
left  the  word  to  him. 

"Want  particulars,  do  you?"  he  went  on. 
"Well,  I'll  hand  you  a  few.  For  a  starter,  I 
know  that  you're  a  pack  of  swindlers — Hoyt, 
my  fancy  butler,  and  you,  Miss  God-knows- 
what!  Fact  number  two:  you  haven't  been 
content  to  skin  me;  you've  tried  to  do  one 
another.  You  made  a  blunder  there,  my  lady. 
If  you  three  had  stuck  together  you  might  have 
stood  some  chance.  Did  you  actually  expect 
to  find  Creevey  here  after  that  crook  Hoyt  piled 
into  the  beauty-parlor  and  told  you  that  the 
safe  was  empty?" 

His  bold  shot  told.  Weakened  by  his  sweep- 
ing knowledge,  she  read  into  his  final  question 
bitter  warrant  for  the  doubt  which  must  have 
tortured  her  as  she  came  seeking  Creevey  in 
the  dead  of  night.  Pallid  and  unstrung,  she 
leaned  against  the  wall,  her  dry  lips  moving 
without  a  sound. 

Olive  felt  only  pity  for  this  silent  misery. 

"Let  her  go,  Steve,"  she  entreated. 

Heartened  by  this  intercession,  the  woman 
found  her  voice. 

"What  do  you  want  of  me?"  she  asked,  re- 
peating her  first  cry.  "You  can't  touch  me  for 
anything." 

[339] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

"I  want  you  to  clear  up  one  or  two  points," 
Braisted  answered. 

"You'll  get  no  evidence  out  of  me.  They 
served  me  jolly  rotten — both  of  them — but  I'll 
not  peach." 

"Who  mentioned  evidence?  I've  been  done 
to  a  turn;  but  I  don't  propose  to  play  the  baby 
act.  All  I'm  keen  about  is  a  few  of  the  missing 
links,  and  I  would  make  it  worth  your  while  to 
supply  them.  I  take  it  you  won't  care  to  linger 
as  understudy  at  the  beauty-parlor?  Well,  pick 
your  destination  and  I'll  ante  the  car  fare,  and 
perhaps  a  little  pin-money  on  the  side." 

For  a  long  interval  she  stood  sullenly  busy 
with  her  thoughts. 

"I'd  like  to  get  back  to  England,"  she  said,  at 
last. 

"England  it  is,  then.  Is  that  where  you  hail 
from?" 

"Yes.     I  am  English." 

"What  is  your  real  name?" 

"I  sha'n't  tell." 

Braisted  was  surprised  to  see  her  flush. 

"Come  now,"  he  urged,  "you  want  to  earn 
your  passage-money,  don't  you?" 

"My  name  is  my  own  business." 

"Perhaps  you'd  rather  I  put  the  worst  con- 
struction on  this  midnight  visit  to  my  butler?" 

"Don't,  Steve,"  protested  Olive. 

The  woman  turned  her  head. 

"Everybody  said  your  heart  was  in  the  right 

[340] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

place,"  she  owned.  "The  truth  is,  Creevey  is 
my  father.  He — he  oughtn't  to  be  a  servant. 
He  might  have  been  anything  if  he'd  been  born 
anywhere  but  England." 

"I  guess  that's  right,"  said  Braisted,  taken 
aback  by  her  confession.  "It's  a  pity  he 
couldn't  stay  honest." 

"He  was  honest  till" — her  voice  broke — "till  I 
begged  him  to  help  Hoyt." 

"Till  you  begged  him?" 

"Yes.     I  got  him  into  this  scrape." 

"What  is  Hoyt  to  you?" 

"Nothing!"  she  cried,  vehemently.  "I'm  done 
with  him." 

"He  must  have  been  something  to  you  not 
long  ago  if  you  coaxed  your  father  to  turn 
crooked  on  his  account." 

She  had  no  answer  for  this;  but  her  eyes 
welled  with  tears,  and  Braisted  hastily  took  an- 
other tack. 

"I  don't  want  to  run  your  love  affair  through 
a  cross-examination,"  he  disclaimed;  "but  I 
must  have  the  essential  facts.  Have  you  known 
all  along  that  Hoyt  was  a  swindler?" 

"Of  course  not.  Do  you  suppose  I  would 
have  asked  my  father  to  help  him  if  I'd  known 
his  real  game?" 

"I've  only  your  word  for  it.'* 

"It's  the  truth.  I  swear  it's  the  truth.  Hoyt 
said  that  he  had  a  big  deal  on,  and  that  he  would 
feel  more  comfortable  if  there  was  somebody 

[341] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

here  in  the  house  to  keep  track  of  you,  to  tell 
him  the  people  you  went  with  and  all  that." 

"I  see."  Braisted  smiled  bitterly.  "He  was 
afraid  some  other  grafter  might  get  a  chance  at 
the  good  thing.  Go  ahead." 

"Well,  that's  how  my  father  was  drawn  into 
it.  He  came  here  to  please  me.  I — I  expected 
to  be  married  when  the  business  was  finished. 
I  don't  see  how  I  was  ever  such  a  fool  as  to  be- 
lieve in  Hoyt.  Most  of  the  time  he  was  making 
up  to  your  daughter  I  believed  in  him;  but  last 
week  I  got  jealous." 

"And  followed  him  to  New  York?" 

"Yes;  and  even  then  he  pulled  the  wool  over 
my  eyes.  I  thought  it  was  just  to  help  along 
the  deal." 

"I'm  sure  it  was,"  put  in  Olive. 

"I'm  not.  He  had  run  off  with  one  rich  girl, 
remember.  I  never  suspected  that  other  mar- 
riage till  Sunday." 

Another  section  of  Olive's  dissected  puzzle 
fitted  into  place. 

"You  guessed  it  when  Creevey  told  you  about 
Miss  Blount's  letter?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.  He  didn't  trust  Hoyt  as  I  did,  and 
tried  to  find  out  all  he  could.  And  that's  why 
your  photograph  was  late." 

"And  broken?" 

"And  broken.  I  stamped  on  it,  I  was  so 
furious.  I  wanted  to  come  to  you  right  away 
and  expose  him.  I  did  mean  to  come  to  you 

[342] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

to-morrow.  I  wouldn't  "stand  by  and  let  any 
decent  girl  marry  that  blackguard." 

"You  would  have  come  on  Fern's  account?" 
exclaimed  Olive. 

"Sounds  fishy,  doesn't  it?  I'm  telling  you 
the  straight  truth,  all  the  same.  I'm  not  a  bad 
woman,  an  adventuress.  I'm  just  a  fool." 

They  were  dumb  before  this  proof  of  human 
nature's  fantastic  variety.  With  a  word  she 
had  reversed  their  positions  and  made  them 
feel  her  debtors. 

The  woman  herself  broke  the  pause. 

"Have  you  heard  enough?"  she  asked,  wearily. 

"Yes."  His  look  questioning  Olive's,  Brai- 
sted  drew  forth  one  of  the  bundles  of  rescued 
bank-notes,  made  a  lavish  choice,  and  offered 
the  money  to  the  figure  opposite,  suddenly 
grown  rigid  and  still.  "This  is  yours,"  he  said. 

She  stared  from  the  package  in  his  hand  to 
the  sagging  pockets  of  his  coat. 

"He  didn't  take  it!"  she  cried.  "You  have 
the  money  there?" 

"Of  course  Creevey  didn't  take  it.  He  never 
had  the  chance." 

The  color  flamed  back  into  her  face. 

"You  made  me  believe  my  father  a  thief!" 

"I  let  you  infer  what  you  pleased.  You'd 
have  told  me  nothing  otherwise." 

"WTiere  is  he?"  she  demanded. 

"They  say  he  went  to  a  roof -garden.  I  guess 
you'll  run  across  him  before  long.  Take  your 

[343] 


THE    WOMAN    OF    IT 

money.  You  have  done  us  a  good  turn,  and  we're 
glad  to  give  it.  My  wife  will  bear  me  out  in 
this." 

Olive  never  had  the  opportunity.  The  next 
instant  the  door  was  flung  wide,  and  Steve,  his 
rejected  gift  still  outstretched,  found  himself 
peering  into  the  enigmatic  night. 

On  the  morrow,  bearing  himself  with  the  out- 
ward awkwardness  that  to  his  wife's  eyes  de- 
noted inward  grace,  Braisted  confessed  that  he 
had  wired  Fern. 

"I  thought  she  ought  to  know  about  Halsey," 
he  explained. 

Olive's  heart  skipped  a  beat. 

"I  hope  you  didn't  frighten  the  child.  We 
know  that  there  is  no  danger  now." 

"I  didn't  scare  her  enough  to  hurt  her.  Here's 
her  reply.  She's  coming  at  once." 

"Steve!     Give  me  the  message." 

He  held  it  out  with  a  curious  smile. 

"Strictly  speaking,"  he  said,  "I  had  no  right 
to  open  it." 

"No  right?" 

"I  mean  that  it's  addressed  to  Ben." 


THE  END 


A     000128488     4 


